


Who Are You Fighting For?

by metalavocadoes



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Domestic Violence, Fighting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Save Rock and Roll Tour, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, i am sincerely sorry for all that is to come, its all GAAAAAYY, so fucking GAAAAAYYYY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-05-05 15:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 46,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalavocadoes/pseuds/metalavocadoes
Summary: Pete's used to hearing Patrick argue with people over the phone. Joe's used to seeing him storm out of the bus without so much as a glance over his shoulder as he stomps away. Andy's used to helping him clean up when he comes back drunk and ready to collide with the floor.What they're not used to, however, is Patrick mumbling a confession of what might just be love right before he drifts off to sleep, directed at all three of them.





	1. You Want A War, You Got A War

Pete's used to hearing Patrick argue with people over the phone. Usually, it gets resolved pretty quick, with hasty apologies and returned forgiveness. The singer never gets too worked up, managing to keep his cool in most situations. There's shouting, sure, but never insults or curses or anything that would bring tears to someone's eyes. And yes, Patrick will be pissed after, mumbling something about how rude people can be, but he always pulls himself together and works through it. The last thing he would do would be to yell a stream of profanities so colorful Pete wonders if perhaps he's kept all his anger pent up for a bit too long and throw his phone at the wall.

So when he does exactly that, Pete thinks he has every right to be concerned. 

They're on the tour bus, cars and scenery passing by in blurs of movement, when he hears the loud thud sounding from the bunks. He drops his fork into his macaroni in surprise as he jumps, the metal bouncing against the bowl loudly. He takes one last bite of his dinner, wishing he could have something more to eat, and raises his eyebrows at Joe and Andy. They both look equally confused, turning their attention towards the bunks. Pete follows their eyes and, sure enough, Patrick throws open the door and stalks out. 

Pete's expecting to see a bit of anger swirling in his eyes, a bit of spite and rage. What he's not expecting to see is pure, unfiltered fury burning in those gorgeous orbs of green and blue. Pete stands, blocking the younger man's path out of the bus, because he _needs_ to know what's got his friend like this. Patrick's hands are by his sides as he balls them into fists, and for a terrible second Pete thinks he's about to end up with a broken nose. The thought leaves his minds as quickly as it came, though, when he notices the slight wobble in his friend's jaw.

"Patrick?" He says cautiously. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't receive a response. Instead, he's gifted with a harsh shove to the chest, and he stumbles backwards. He lands on Andy, who looks just as shocked as him even behind his glasses. Pete moves to stand, but, seeing the fire burning in Patrick's eyes, he decides it's better to stay down.

"What the fuck, Patrick?" It's Joe who breaks the tense silence hovering in the bus. His hair moves with him as he rises to his feet and strides toward the singer swiftly. Another pair of angry eyes join the first, and they lock onto each other in what might be the most intense staring contest Pete's ever witnessed. Two piercing blue gazes, both glaring, one steadily growing angrier.

Again, Patrick doesn't give a response. He lowers his gaze and tries to walk past Joe, but the guitarist is having none of it. He spreads his arms out and stands strong, refusing to let Patrick leave. Patrick attempts to push Joe out of the way, like he did with Pete, and all he gets is a small stagger. 

Andy shifts from under him, and Pete moves out of the way so he can get off the couch. His cheeks flush as he realizes the position they were just in, but he pushes it to the back of his mind when Andy begins to confront Patrick.

"Okay, so it's obvious you're angry," he states. Patrick seems to be debating whether or not he can kill someone with his eyes. "Care to tell us why?"

Pete's expecting another shove. He's expecting the sound of boots smashing into the floor and towards the driver, demanding that they stop. He's expecting to see his best friend to explode in anger and he's also considering the possibility of one of them walking on stage at their next show with a black eye.

He should stop expecting what's expected.

Patrick's shoulders hunch, and he seems to curl in on himself. The anger fades from his eyes as his bottom lip trembles and his shaking hands are now followed by the rest of his body. He swallows thickly, his throat bobbing, and Pete tries not to follow the action with his eyes. Really, he does. But he's pined after this man the second he heard him sing, and his feelings certainly haven't gone away in the past twelve years.

There's a shaky intake of breath, and then Patrick's speaking. His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, and Pete strains to hear him. "I can't tell you."

"What? Why?" Joe's almost as angry as Patrick was a few moments ago, and Pete knows this can only go badly.

"I said I can't tell you." The anger is seeping back into the singer's tone. He now looks more irritated than anything else, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. "It's not important anyways."

Pete doesn't like that answer. "You were about to punch a hole through the wall a few minutes ago. I don't think you get that pissed off over nothing."

"Why do you need to know?" Patrick snaps back. "It's none of your fucking business!"

Ah, there's the yelling. Pete is now in the same position Joe was only a few moments ago, and he hates it. "Patrick, we're your friends! Just tell us what's wrong, let us sort this out together!"

"I don't want your fucking help!"

"I don't care! Stop being so selfish and let other people help you for once!"

"Oh,I'm _selfish?_ At least I'm not sticking my nose where it doesn't belong, Pete!"

"Is everything okay back there?" The driver yells suddenly, interrupting the heated argument between the friends. Pete notices they've pulled off in some nameless town, and he's not sure if he's thankful or not.

"Yeah, just give us a minute!" Andy answers before turning to the two men. His voice is quiet and dangerous when he speaks. "Are you two just going to scream at each other forever, or are we going to sort this out?"

"Ask Patrick that," Pete retorts before he can stop himself, and he almost immediately regrets his actions when he sees the look on Patrick's face. He looks downright ready to commit murder; his knuckles have gone white and his face has gone red. There's something else swimming in his eyes, something conflicted and torn. And it's Pete's fault.

He reaches out for his friend, intending to cup his face and make him look at him and admit that he shouldn't have said that, he went too far, but his hand is slapped away almost immediately. 

"Patrick?" He says softly, leaning down to try and catch the singer's eyes.

He wants to think he's surprised by the kick to the guts, but honestly, it's another thing he's expecting. He deserves it, he thinks as he sinks to the ground, clutching his throbbing stomach with a groan. When he looks up, Patrick seems at least a little guilty, but the expression is soon wiped from his face when Joe finally snaps. He grabs Patrick's wrists and turns him around harshly as Andy helps Pete to stand, teeth bared.

"What the actual hell is wrong with you?!" He yells in the man's face, and Patrick flinches back. "Why would you do that, you asshole?!"

"Leave me alone!" Patrick shouts back just as loudly. "Let go of me!"

"Not until you explain!"

"There's nothing _to_ explain, Joe, get off!"

"I don't fucking think so, Patrick! You just kicked _Pete,_ of all people! What the shit?!"

"I can't tell you, remember?!" Patrick's nostrils flair and he slams his foot on the ground, the whole bus shaking from the force of it. "He'd kill me if anyone else knew!"

It goes silent. Joe seems to be processing what he's just been told, Andy's eyebrows practically meet his hairline at this point, and Pete's already plotting fifty different ways to murder anyone who so much as _thinks_ that they can lay a hand on Patrick. 

And Patrick looks like he's just made the biggest mistake of his life. His eyes are wide and his breathing is nonexistent, hands trembling in Joe's hold. He begins to shake his head wildly, muttering under his breath, "I didn't mean to, oh god, that doesn't mean anything, please _please_ don't freak out I swear it doesn't mean anything guys pleaseplease _please."_

It hurts. Patrick, one of the people who loves more than anything else, looks terrified, and- _are those tears?_

Pete needs to find out who did this to him. "Patrick," he starts slowly. "Who are you talking about?"

Patrick shakes harder, his head a blur. It's a miracle his hat doesn't fly off. "No one! It's no one!"

Pete doesn't believe him for a second. Again, he steps forward. With a quick look at Joe, the singer's hands are freed, and he immediately wraps them around himself, shrinking away. "Please, Patrick. Who is it?"

"I-I already told you, it's _no one!"_ His voice cracks mid-sentence, and Pete's heart cracks along with it. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Bullshit." A sudden thought occurs to him, and a sick feeling settles in his stomach. "You know you can tell us if someone hurt you, right?"

"No one hurt me, Pete, fuck off!" 

They're about to continue their shouting match when the driver stomps towards them. He crosses his arms in front of him and raises a brow in suspicion. "What's going on here?"

Patrick looks at him as though he's an angel sent from Heaven. With one last glare at Pete, he focuses solely on the new person in the room. "I-I," he tries, his voice wavering. He clears his throat. "Is it okay if I got off the bus for a while?"

The driver, not even trying to hide his confusion, nods slowly. "For how long?"

"A few hours, at least."

When the driver nods his consent and leaves, Pete can't help but feel betrayed. "Where are you going, Patrick?" He demands. "And why do you need to be gone for so long?" 

"That's none of your business, _Pete."_ Patrick spits his name out like poison, and the shards of Pete's shattered heart are now being ground into fine dust.

Patrick returns to the bunks, grabbing his phone and examining it for cracks. It must be in a mostly unbroken condition, because he shoves it into his pocket and moves to the door. The other men have all accepted that they won't get anything out of Patrick, so they don't stop him this time.

Just as he places his hand on the doorknob, Andy's voice echoes throughout the bus.

"You're going to get drunk, aren't you."

It's less a question as it is a statement. 

Patrick nods stiffly, and in a heartbeat, he's gone. 

 

 


	2. I Will Get You High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, what's expected doesn't happen.

Joe's used to seeing Patrick storm out of the bus without so much as a glance over his shoulder as he stomps away. It's happened a lot in the past; the redhead has quite the temper. Usually, he'll be out for a few minutes, pacing around in the parking lot or the field or wherever else they've pulled off. He'll come back in and mumble a quick apology to everyone in the bus before retreating to his bunk. Joe isn't sure what he does after that. He imagines there's some Garageband involved in cooling off, creating songs that scream angst and fury.

Other times, he'll be out for hours. This usually happens when they're in towns and cities, either staying at a hotel or hanging out on the side of the road. The latter happens less frequently, given their significant paychecks. When he finally comes back, he'll be drunk off his ass, giggling and stumbling over his feet. Whoever feels most responsible on these nights gets to help him clean up and put him to bed, and usually they'll end up rubbing his back as he vomits into the toilet. It hurts, nights like those.

But this night hurts the most. They haven't fought much since _Folie,_ and even though they've only been on tour for a month, it's been smooth sailing until now. Joe had figured they'd all been past that stage, where everyone takes every opportunity to yell and scream and cause a ruckus. 

Clearly, they've got to work on that. 

Joe watches the door longingly, waiting for it to open and reveal a laughing singer smelling of alcohol. He'd nodded when Andy had asked if he was drinking; he's been gone for at least four hours, so at least he's not lying about that. Probably not, anyways. 

Joe pushes the thought aside and instead goes back to scrolling through his Twitter feed. A photo of Patrick appears and disappears beneath his thumb, and he can't bring himself to find it again. A spark of longing ignites in his heart. He wants to know that Patrick's okay, that his worrying is unnecessary and that they'll figure this out in the morning.

He isn't used to Patrick keeping secrets. They've agreed to tell each other if there was something going on, and they both (usually) live up to that. What perplexes him even more is how utterly _terrified_ Patrick had looked, as though he'd just been told he was on a trip to the gallows. That's not normal, not for Patrick. None of this is normal.

It's certainly not normal when his phone buzzes, and the screen tells him Patrick's sent a text. Usually, Joe or Andy or Pete or someone else will decide that Patrick's been out for too long and go find him. The singer never actually asks for someone to pick him up, but that's exactly what he's doing.

_come get me pls_

Joe frowns at the message, typing a response. 

_**Where are u?** _

 

_I don't know sum bar_

Joe's about to ask him to specify, because there's most likely more than one bar in town, but another sound from his phone stops him.

_can i call u_

**_why?_ **

_im scared_

Joe's heart stops beating in his chest. Patrick is happy when he's drunk. Patrick doesn't give a fuck when he's drunk _._ And he is most certainly _never scared_ when he's drunk.

_**Yeah go ahead** _

Seconds after he replies, his ringtone blasts through his speakers. Andy and Pete look up in surprise, but Joe pays them no mind as he presses answer and put his phone to his ear. Patrick's voice meets his ears through the speakers, slurred and tipsy.

"Hey, Joey," he giggles. He doesn't sound scared, but he isn't the kind to joke about it. He's always been good at internalizing his emotions, even when he's drinking.

"Patrick? Where are you?" Joe's brow furrows and he pretends that the shaking in his hands is fake.

"'S some weird bar place," comes his reply. "Wait, I already told you that."

"Yes, you did. Can you give me a name?"

There's a pause, and Joe would think Patrick's hung up on him if it weren't for the music still blaring in the background. Soon, Patrick's voice comes back. "Jolly Swan, or something? Jolly Goose?"

Joe knows what he's talking about. He breathes a sigh of relief, glad that he now knows Patrick's whereabouts. "Jolly Swan. We're a few blocks away. Just stay there, alright? I'll come get you." 

"M'kay. Be quick, Joey, please."

And there goes his relief. "Why?"

"I think someone put somethin' in my drink."

Joe feels as though the floor's been pulled out from under him. He immediately stands and goes to his bunk, retrieving his jacket. Anger bubbles up in him, coursing through his veins and pounding in his heart. "Fuck, okay," he breathes into the phone, hoping he doesn't sound as horrified as he is. Who would do this? And why Patrick? "Did you see who did it?"

"No, but there's this group in a booth tha's been lookin' at me a lot."

"Okay, fuck." Pete and Andy both look concerned, their gazes asking unspoken questions.  _What's wrong, what's happened?_

"Are you coming or nah?"

"Yes, Patrick, I'll be there in a moment. Please, don't hang up."

"Kay."

He turns to the bassist and drummer. "Patrick needs me to pick him up."

"We're coming too, then," Pete says, determination shining in his eyes. Joe's always found his headstrong attitude endearing, and it's reassuring to know Patrick has people that care so fiercely about him, but he's unsure of how much company Patrick wants.

"I don't know, Pete, I'm not sure how he'll feel about that."

Before Pete can retort, Patrick's voice rings throughout the room. "That's cool, Pete. Also Joe, you've had me on loudspeaker this entire time."

Joe flushes, gesturing for Andy and Pete to follow him rather than focus on his embarrassment. They both grab their jackets and they exit the bus together, shoulder to shoulder. Under other circumstances, Joe would find their position reassuring, but right now all he feels is the thunder of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears. They walk quickly, falling into step until they're all moving at the same brisk pace.

"Shit, Joe," Patrick says, and a stab of fear pierces through Joe's chest. "They're coming over to me."

Joe's footsteps speed up, and he's nearly running at this point. Pete and Andy are right by his side, and when Pete speeds up the other two follow. They're sprinting down the sidewalk, shoving past other pedestrians and pointedly ignoring their glares, because Patrick is _drunk_ right now, and he could be _drugged_ too, and there's people near him with the intent to _harm and if Jolly Swan's sign doesn't show up right this minute he swears to god he'll-_

Finally, _finally,_ the bar comes into view. "We're here, Patrick," he breathes. "We made it."

There's only silence on the other end. Joe tries again. "Patrick? You still there?" 

He looks at his phone and finds that Patrick hasn't hung up, the call's still going, but despite him calling his name, there's no answer. 

He finds that he's alone when he looks up. Pete and Andy are searching the bar, asking customers if they've seen their lost friend. Joe thinks he sees the tip of a black hat being swept toward the back door, but a voice from his phone takes his attention.

"Patrick isn't here."

And, sure enough, that's _not Patrick's voice._

 


	3. I'll Watch You Choke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's expected, as you can probably guess, doesn't happen, but no one expected this.

Andy's used to helping Patrick clean up when he comes back drunk and ready to collide with the floor. He's used to Patrick hanging over him as he changes his clothes and puts him to bed, switching the light off mutely. He's used to retrieving aspirin and a glass of water in the morning. And, as much as he hates it, he's used to hearing Patrick gag, he's used to seeing his friend's face in the toilet. He's used to rubbing his back and mumbling reassurances in the singer's ear.

He is not used to running after the other two members of the band at ten in the evening. Not used to crashing through the doors of some ridiculously named bar and searching the crowd for blue eyes and golden hair, pale skin and a black hat. 

He's not sure if anyone would be used to seeing their friend, their crush, the person they may or may not be in love with, being whisked away by a group of hooded strangers. And he is not used to the blinding rage that takes over his body, his heart, his soul. They are touching Patrick, _his_ Patrick, and he's not having it. He follows them, deciding that wasting time to tell Joe and Pete about his discovery isn't worth the risk. If they hurt Patrick, their lives will become a living hell. Andy will ensure that. 

He's hit with a cold gust of wind when he exits the bar after them, shuddering and wrapping his arms around himself. Patrick must be cold now, he thinks, because when he left he'd only been wearing a t-shirt. Andy doubts he would've somehow acquired a jacket in the four- no, _five_ hours he's been out. 

They tug Patrick across the street, Andy hiding behind dumpsters and street lamps as he walks after them, and approach the park. It's clear that no one uses it anymore-not how they should, anyway. There's graffiti all over the rusty slides and squeaking swing sets, and when Andy steps closer he can smell piss. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. He watches the group make their way over to a small parking lot, and his eyes widen when he sees the black van. He tries to fool himself into thinking that it's not theirs, it just happens to be in their way, but when one of them pulls out a key and the lights on the vehicle flash, it takes all his self control not to run forward and smash their faces in, shove them to the pavement, show them what happens when you mess with someone from Fall Out Boy. What happens when you mess with Patrick Stump.

They deserve to know what happens when they touch someone Andy Hurley loves with a passion, even though that love may never be returned. They deserve the fury of his fists and the flames of his feet, the blades of his kicks and the daggers of his knuckles. They deserve the gravel that will bite into their cheeks, they've earned the broken ribs and shattered hopes they have set themselves out to find. 

Andy knows this is true when he sees them slide the door open, and he dashes to the parking lot, hidden under the cover of trees. He crouches behind the car closest to the van and peers around the side, taking in the situation and considering his options. It'll take about five seconds to reach them, three if he's fast enough, and there's only four people, so the fight shouldn't take any longer than it needs to. He'll make them suffer, and he'll do it quickly. 

They begin their attempts to shove Patrick into the van, and Andy forces away his disappointment when he sees that Patrick isn't trying to fight them off. It's because he's drunk, he reasons, and he's drugged as well. No one would be able to fight in his condition. 

He sees that they're distracted, and, taking a deep breath, he seizes his moment. 

He makes a beeline for the smallest, scrawniest looking thug and throws a punch at the back of their head, his tattooed knuckles burning a brand in their hood. They stumble forward, falling to their knees, and he barely has time to think before another black-clad criminal is lunging at him, fists searching for his face. He blocks their attack easily and gives them a kick to the ribs in return, spinning on one foot as the other collides with their chest. They take up the same position as their friend, and Andy feels pitiful for a moment; they could've done so much better than this, but instead, they chose a path of dark alleys and bad decisions. 

He attacks the tallest one next, sweeping his ankle beneath theirs and feeling a dark satisfaction as he watches them topple over. He turns to the last one, the one with their disgusting hands on porcelain skin, the one trying to mark it up and claim it as theirs.

That's something he deserves to do. Not this nameless piece of shit. 

He grabs for their throat, fingers curling around their neck tightly, and when their Adam's Apple bobs beneath his hands he grins down at them wickedly. He squeezes tighter, watching as they claw at his wrists and kick and squirm. He wants to watch them choke, wants to watch the light fade from their eyes, because he knows that's what they were planning to do to Patrick.

They're gasping and wheezing and it's music to his ears, so when a shrill voice shreds through the night, his blood boils.

"S-STOP IT RIGHT NOW OR ELSE!"

He turns toward the source, and his boiling blood goes cold and sluggish in his veins.

The short one, the first one he attacked, has apparently recovered, and he curses himself over and over in his head, he's so stupid, because he hadn't thought for a second that perhaps one of these people would be carrying weapons. Of course, the unexpected happens yet again. The glint of metal is only made visible by the flickering street lamps, but he can see it clear as day.

It's so easy to see the way it's pressed against Patrick's throat, threating to spill his blood at any given moment. 

Andy freezes, looks up at Patrick's face. At the face he's always adored. He takes in the storm of emotion brewing in those colorful eyes, runs his gaze over the sharp cheek bones and the defined jaw. He stares at the lips he's always wanted to kiss, and he realizes with horrible clarity that if he doesn't act now, he'll never get the chance.

His grip on the criminal's throat slackens and they gasp for breath as he drops them to the ground, hands scrambling for their throat as they couch and wheeze. He decides that they're his second least favorite person, falling right behind the kid with the blade at Patrick's neck. 

"Let him go," he says, ashamed of the way his trembling voice betrays his emotions. They know he's scared now, he's certain.

But when he looks into their eyes, he realizes that they're just as scared as him, and he knows now that they're both afraid of losing someone tonight.

And he can't help it when his heart becomes a leaden weight in his chest as he takes in their face.

They're so _young._ Barely older than eighteen. Their hair is hidden beneath their hood, a few dark strands framing their gaunt face, the crazed look in their eyes out of place on a canvas so pure.

So young.

Yet such a menace.

"I said let him go," he growls, the tremor forgotten. He's not leaving this parking lot empty handed.

The kid's eyes bulge. "N-no! You-you... you have to leave!"

"I'm not going anywhere. Not without Patrick." Andy clenches and unclenches his fists.

Patrick looks up when he hears his name, and his eyes meet Andy's. There are _tears, actual tears_ in his eyes, and the older man forgets about mercy and kindness and all the other good things in the world because when Patrick is crying they mean _nothing,_ not a thing. He's about to step forward, about to snap the kid's neck and laugh while he's doing it, when a weak voice breaks the heavy air of silence.

"P-please," Patrick croaks brokenly. "Please don't hurt him."

And now Andy's crying too, because _of course_ Patrick wouldn't put himself first, _of course_ Patrick would let himself suffer if it meant his friends were okay. Andy regrets ever letting Patrick off the bus, regrets not blocking the door and putting his foot down. This is all his fault.

"Andy." He sobs when Patrick whispers his name. This is _wrong,_ all of this is wrong, he could've done so much better, none of this would have happened if he hadn't been so _stupid-_

Before anyone can react, something smooth and blunt and _big_ collides with the back of Andy's head and he topples to the ground, the world spinning around him. He hears a shout of surprise just before his face smashes into the concrete. There's buzzing in his ears and teeth, he's got fish eye lenses for eyes, and he can't feel the lower half of his body. This is it, he thinks, he's going to die, and it's so ironic because this is what he'd pictured himself doing to someone else only a few minutes ago, this should've been them.

A few tears slide down his cheeks and onto the ground, wetting the stones and further humiliating him. He's so _weak,_ and the world is rubbing it in his face. His shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, but hey, he's practically dead already, so there's no point in holding back. He bawls in the parking lot, at an ungodly hour of the night, after being hit by a _kid,_ a _child,_ and it's so ridiculous he almost laughs. But that hurts too much.

There are black spots gathering in his vision when he hears the sirens.

And when he finally passes out, he sees a flash of blue and red, and falls asleep to the sound of screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! I'm still grinning like a madman five hours after reading them! I'm glad I've managed to write something you find intriguing; this is my first time writing with actual, real life characters and I was a bit nervous. Thanks again, I hope you like!


	4. Can I Lay In Your Bed All Day?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the most unexpected thing of all happens right here, folks.

Pete Wentz is most certainly not angry.

No, that doesn't even cover half of it. 

Yes, he's worried when Joe's eyes widen at his phone. Yes, he's fucking terrified when they enter the bar no more than five minutes later in search of Patrick.

But he wasn't angry.

Not until he got to the parking lot.

He sees Andy just as the drummer exits the bar, and retrieves Joe. Together, they follow him across the street and through the playground. He gags at the smell, and his stomach does about fifty backflips when he finally sees the group Andy's been stalking. He squints at the cluster of heads and almost throws up when he sees strawberry blond hair hidden beneath a black hat. He intends to rush forward, to let his anger take over, because his body is burning with barely hidden rage, but Joe grabs his arm and forces him to stay where he is. 

He watches Andy rush forward, and feels a surge of pride at how well he fights.

The pride washes away when the short one puts a knife at Patrick's neck. Pete's breathing becomes ragged and uneven, his hands shaking.

Someone deals a blow to Andy with a rusty pipe, and all Pete sees is red. 

He screams as he runs forward, lunging for the one with the pipe and ripping it from their hands. Joe's called the police, and he can hear sirens in the distance, getting louder, but he doesn't care right now. They have hurt two of the people he cares about most, and he won't let them get away with it. He twists the pipe in his hands, the rust coating his fingers in orange. He notices the knife wielder flinch, and immediately decides who he's going to attack first.

Their screech of pain is like music to his ears when he brings the pipe to their shoulder. He thinks he hears something crack, but it's hard to tell given how loud they're being. He moves forward to silence them, but, when he hears footsteps from behind him, he reasons that they've dropped the knife, they can wait.

He spares a glance at Patrick, at pale skin and plush lips, and he remembers who he's doing this for as he swings his weapon into the side of the criminal's head.

They collapse to the ground in a boneless heap, too close to Andy for his liking, so he kicks them away and moves on to the next fighter. With a blow to the shin, they're down. It's almost too easy, beating up helpless kids. 

The sirens are blaring now, he realizes when the ringing in his ears dies down. There are commands being shouted and guns being drawn, and the next thing he knows, he surrounded by police officers. They shout at him to put his weapon down, show them his hands, and he slowly obliges. One officer moves forward slowly and inches toward the van. Pete realizes they're moving towards Patrick, and he panics.

"Get the hell away from him!" He shouts, doing his best to ignore the sound of gravel shifting beneath boots. He knows he looks like a suspect, but he has to convince them that Patrick is innocent. None of this is his fault. "Don't you dare touch him! He's the fucking victim here, can't you see?! These kids drugged him and tried to hurt him, don't you dare accuse Patrick!"

"I wasn't going to, sir," the woman's voice is sickeningly sweet. "I was just going to see if he was okay."

Pete doubts that, but he holds his tongue. "He was almost kidnapped, I don't think anyone would be okay after that."

Another officer moves forward. He looks older, in his fifties maybe, and he certainly doesn't look as calm as his predecessor. "What happened?" He demands gruffly, as if it's Pete's fault that he's here.

"We had a fight a few hours ago, on the bus," Pete begins, trying to calm his breathing. It's hard to do when there's several guns aimed at his head. "Patrick left and got drunk. He asked us to pick him up a while ago, and then he said that someone put something in his drink. When we got to the bar, I saw Andy going outside, and when me and Joe followed him we saw these guys taking him to the parking lot." He gestures to the fallen kids with a stiff nod, and tries not to look at Andy's crumpled form. He wants to reach out and hold him, wants to make sure he's okay, and he wants to do the same to Patrick, but these damn police officers will shoot him if he moves, so he forces himself to stay still.

"Is this Andy?" The female officer asks, pointing to Patrick.

Patrick, who's passed out and leaning on her shoulder. Pete feels jealousy slither into his brain as he shakes his head and points at Andy. "That's him."

"So this is Patrick, then?" God, he wants to scream in her face how obvious it is, how stupid she's being.

"Yes. And my other friend over there is Joe. He's the one who called you guys." Joe inclines his head at the armed men and women surrounding the van, watching from afar.

"So you followed Andy out. Then what happened?" The old man says. He's rather out of shape, Pete notes.

"Andy attacked them. The kidnappers. They were going to hurt Patrick, and they hurt him, too. I came over when I saw what'd happened, and... here we are."

"So you and Andy provoked them."

Pete feels a wave of anger so colossal it might actually be a tsunami. "They drugged Patrick, tried to put him in a fucking van, Andy tried to get him away and so did I, and you think all of this is our fault?"

"That's not what I said."

"You might as well have."

The man sighs and tucks away his gun, motioning for the others to do the same. Two of them pull out pairs of handcuffs and click them around the kids' wrists. The hooded figures struggle and kick against them, but they can't break free. 

Joe raises his eyebrows at the officers. "You're letting us go?"

Another sigh. "Your actions were justified. We have no reason to hold you in our care." He glances at Andy briefly. "Although, a hospital might be a good idea."

There's a groan from the pavement, and a soft voice calls up to them. "I-I think I'll be fine."

"Andy! Shit, dude, are you okay?" Joe immediately scoops the drummer into his arms, gripping him tightly.

Andy lets out a small groan of pain. "Not really," he wheezes. "But a hospital isn't necessary."

Pete allows a small amount of relief to wrap around him before he turns to the other officer. "Let him go, we'll take it from here."

"If you're sure," she murmurs quietly before detaching herself from Patrick.

Pete is practically a blur as he dashes forward and embraces his friend, squeezing him so tightly he might've woken up. His eyes remained closed, however, and his breathing is deep. Pete huffs out a breathless laugh and nuzzles his face into the singer's broad chest, tears threatening to escape. He lets them soak Patrick's shirt, shaking hands gripping the fabric tightly. He sobs, a small, pitiful sound, and hides his face further in the damp cotton. Patrick remains unconscious.

 _You could have lost this,_ his traitorous mind spits, and he cries harder at the thought. A world without a Patrick isn't a world worth living in. He reaches up to stroke the soft, delicate strands of hair beneath Patrick's hat and bunches them into his fist. He feels that if he lets go, Patrick will somehow disappear. He can't go through that, not after all this.

A cold hand lands on his shoulder. "Come on," Joe says softly. "Let's go back to the bus."

Pete sniffles. "Is Andy okay?"

"I'm fine, Pete," the drummer answers with a smile ghosting across his lips. "I'm pretty sore, but I'll manage."

"Okay." Pete backs away from Patrick to pick him up, biting back a groan at the weight. The singer's not as heavy as he used to be, but that doesn't mean he's as light as a feather, either. Pete doesn't mind; Patrick is beautiful no matter how high the number on the scale is. 

The officers shut their doors, and Pete catches a glimpse of a furious face from behind the glass. He quickly averts his eyes. Andy leans on Joe and Pete staggers after them with Patrick's limp body as they walk back to the bus. It's not far, but Pete's back hurts and within five minutes he wishes he'd just called and asked the driver to pick them up. They were the only ones awake when they left, though, and if anyone were to wake him up during a much needed nap he'd be pissed. He's mostly sure the driver would feel the same way. 

After the round the corner and Pete feels his legs begin to give out from beneath him, the bus appears. He forces himself to continue, because he's almost there, _just a few more feet._

At last, the door swings open and the warmth of the heaters wraps around them all. Pete notices that Patrick's skin is icy beneath his fingers, and he makes a quick mental note to find a sweater for him. Joe opens the door to the bunks and drops Andy onto his with a sigh. Pete's about to do the same with Patrick, but the beds are incredibly small and the blankets are thin, so he continues into the back room and lays his friend on the larger mattress. The room's messy, which Patrick will complain about when he wakes up, but it's better than freezing to death.

Just as Pete goes to remove his jacket, Patrick's eyes flutter open.

"Pete?" He whispers hoarsely, his voice dry. 

Pete smiles so wide his face hurts and immediately sits down next to the man on the bed. "Hey, Trick."

"What happened?" Patrick's eyes are clouded with confusion and he's obviously still shrouded in the haze of sleep. Pete finds it adorable, his heart swelling in his chest.

"A lot of stuff, buddy. I'll explain in the morning," he answers. "For now, I'm gonna help you get changed. Your clothes are all gross. I think someone threw up on you."

Indeed, there's a stain on Patrick's jeans that smells rather suspicious. The younger man scrunches his face up in distaste and nods, already sliding his pants down his thighs. Pete looks away as his cheeks flood with color, focusing instead on finding the most comfortable pair of sweatpants he can. 

He digs through Patrick's suitcase and pulls out black sweats, a grey t-shirt that's just a bit too big and a warm looking hoodie. He retrieves his own pair of fluffy socks and reenters the back room, finding Patrick sprawled out on the bed in nothing more than his underwear. Pete squeaks at the sight and slaps a hand to his mouth to conceal it. If Patrick notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Got you some clothes," Pete mutters, dropping them on the bed and turning to leave. He needs to get that image of his best friend out of his mind right now.

Patrick's scratchy voice stops him dead in his tracks. "Can you help, please?" He slurs. "I can't do it myself."

If it were possible, Pete's face would be a raging bonfire right now. "S-sure," he stutters out, nearing the bed. Patrick removes his hat and hands it to Pete, who then places it on one of the bags littered about the room. He grabs the shirt and Patrick raises his arms above his head, allowing Pete to slip it on with ease. The pants come next, although with more struggle; it turns out, trying to get sweats on someone who's half asleep isn't very easy. Patrick's legs both end up in the same hole, he almost puts his foot straight through the crotch and at one point he narrowly avoids kicking Pete in the face. Eventually, though, the black fabric covers his thighs completely. He slides on the hoodie and falls back onto the bed. 

"Go back to sleep, Patrick," Pete says softly, throwing Patrick's dirty clothes into a pile in the corner. 

Patrick hums and scoots back, pulling away the blankets and shimmying under them. He rests his head on the pillow and looks up at Pete with wide eyes.

"Where's Joe and Andy?" He whispers.

"They're in the next room. I could go get them if you want?"

"Please."

Pete throws a glance over his shoulder as he makes his way over to Joe. The guitarist is sitting on the bed next to Andy, and the two are chatting idly. He thinks he hears the name Brendon Urie tossed about in their conversation, but he can't be sure. They both look up at him when he gets close, eyebrows raised, and he gestures to the back room wordlessly. Joe offers his hands to Andy, pulling him up, and the three of them exit the bunks.

When they get back, Patrick looks like he's on the brink of consciousness. He blinks blearily at them and smiles when their faces register in his mind. "Hey," he rumbles sleepily.

He gets three identical smiles in return. "Hi, Patrick," Andy replies, sitting down and running a hand through the singer's ruffled hair. Patrick leans into the touch and smiles wider. Pete forces away the jealousy that once again claws its way into his chest. _Other people are aloud to touch Patrick,_ he reminds himself. _He doesn't belong to you._

Patrick's eyes close again and he exhales deeply, dropping his head back onto the pillow. 

He's just about to drift off when he laughs at something unapparent to everyone else, and when he whispers an explanation seconds before he falls asleep, Pete's heart stops.

"Can't believe I fell in love with all three of you."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaahh I don't know how police stuff happens I'm sorry.


	5. I've Got Headaches And Bad Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings can be very strange, confusing things.

No one says anything. 

The back room is silent, save for Patrick's deep breaths as he slumbers peacefully. 

There are wide eyes, still hearts, shaking hands and pale faces, but no words.

Joe changes that.

"Did I just hear what I think I did?" He sounds breathless. And with good reason, too. Someone confessing what might just be love to not one, not two, but three people at once is far from trivial. 

Andy barely manages to nod. "I-I... I think you did."

"Holy shit," Pete whispers, voice strained.

"Do... do you think maybe he meant it platonically?" Andy suggests after another bout of silence.

Joe isn't quite sure what to say. "I-I'm not sure." _I hope not._

Pete shakes his head. "I doubt it. Patrick wouldn't just randomly say 'I love you' without meaning it."

They all turn their attention back to the sleeping man in the bed. His hair sticks out in all direction, his hands are curled infront of his chest and his face is relaxed. He snuffles softly, and Joe has to stop himself from squealing like a schoolgirl and squeezing the life out of him at how cute it is. Instead, he gently grazes his knuckles against cheek bones so sharp they could spill blood and sighs softly.

"We could ask him about it in the morning," Andy suggests.

"He'll probably be hungover," Pete counters. "There's no telling how much he drank. Probably a lot, if him passing out is anything to go by."

Joe thinks for a moment, throwing around ideas in his head. "We could see how he's feeling when he wakes up. Maybe we could ask when we get dinner?"

He receives two nods at his idea, and braces himself as he goes to bed. He can hardly sleep because of his pounding heart, and hates that talking to his friend makes him nervous.

///

It's 9:00 AM when Patrick wakes up.

It's 9:01 AM when Patrick rushes to the toilet and throws up any and all of the food he'd eaten the day before. 

He rips open the door to the tiny bathroom on the bus and kneels on the cool tiles, his feet sticking out uncomfortably as he dry heaves. Vomit drops into the toilet bowl and makes the room smell, but it's the last thing he's focused on as his stomach lurches. He gags and spits, cringing at the foul taste in his mouth, and immediately loathes the headache that begins to pound into his skull like a drum. A very loud, very painful drum. He groans as he convulses, and he coughs. He gags extra hard and thinks some blood splatters into the toilet, although he can't be sure. His vision slowly begins to blur, and he rubs away the tears forming in his eyes. His stomach aches so bad he wonders if perhaps he's somehow damaged one of his organs. He slides his fingers along the front of his hoodie and finds at least a little comfort in the fact that they aren't covered in blood. 

Wait.

He doesn't remember putting on a hoodie.

The headache is getting so bad that it actually _hurts_ to remember yesterday, to sort through his memories, so he waits for his body to decide that he's been tormented enough before trying to think too hard. There are glimpses of flashing lights and flickering street lamps, warm eyes and a warmer bed. He feels like he's missing something, something important, and not knowing what that something is kills him. 

"Patrick?" A familiar voice calls from behind him, and soon enough, a warm hand is on his back.

Patrick tries to answer them, but his gut decides that he doesn't need to speak just yet and he dry heaves again. Once he's mostly sure he won't vomit all over the person behind him he leans back from the toilet. 

Joe's hair is the first thing he sees. It's usually the first thing anyone sees; it's hard to ignore a mane of dark, curly hair which is technically an afro at this point. He then catches that piercing blue gaze, and his mind goes blank. All of the color drains from his already pale face as he swallows deeply. 

He remembers those same blue eyes radiating with anger. And he knows it's his fault.

"I-I'm sorry," Patrick croaks, wincing at how scratchy his throat is. 

Joe's face falls. "Patrick, you have nothing to be sorry for," he answers, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"B-but I... I yelled at you and Pete and Andy, and then," he shakes his head. "And then I went and got drunk and you h-had to go get me. I have lots of things to be sorry for."

"And if I hadn't provoked you in the first place none of that would've happened," Joe says with a frown. "I should have minded my own business and respected your boundaries, but I didn't. I'm the one who should be sorry, Patrick, not you."

"But-"

"No buts. Don't argue with me on this, you know you won't win."

Patrick sighs heavily. "I know," he murmurs softly. "But that doesn't change the fact that I still feel bad."

Joe gives him a bittersweet smile. "You don't have to feel bad. C'mere." 

He spreads his arms wide and Patrick immediately falls into the embrace, hands bunching up in the back of Joe's shirt. He's relieved that the churning in his stomach has settled; he doesn't want to move away from the warmth of the guitarist. Joe laughs softly and reaches behind him to flush to toilet before returning the hug, squeezing tightly. Patrick hides his face in Joe's shoulder and tries to fight back the burning in his cheeks. He shivers when he feels hands rub at the small of his back, and tears begin to sting at his eyes. He blinks hard in an attempt to make them go away, but it fails and they soon slip down his cheeks.

He's starting to remember.

He's starting to wonder why no one's kicked him out for all that he's done.

Joe seems to notice the sudden dampness in Patrick's eyes, because he pulls the smaller man closer and reaches a hand up to run through his hair. Patrick remembers something similar occurring not long ago, but his mind is still fuzzy. He shudders and sobs, holding on for dear life. He vaguely registers Joe muttering in his ear. "It's okay, 'Trick. Just let it out," he croons. "I'm here, I'll always be here. I won't let you go."

"'M sorry," he cries back. "G-God, 'm so fucking s-sorry."

"No, no, no, Patrick, stop it." Joe pulls away and stares him down. "Stop apologizing, please. You did nothing wrong, and you'll never be able to convince me otherwise, so just... stop it."

Patrick swallows around the lump in his throat. "I... okay." 

Joe doesn't seem convinced. He sighs heavily, and Patrick's about to start apologizing again when he leans forward and rests their foreheads together. Patrick's mind goes blank and he can't help but stare at those thin lips. All he has to do is lean in, _just a few inches,_ and he'd be kissing someone he's always wanted to kiss.

But there's something in his heart telling him to stop, to think this through before he acts on impulse, so he stays still. 

After a moment, Joe speaks. "Remember when we used to split drinks together?"

"Yeah, I do. Th-they weren't always very good, though."

"That's true," Joe chuckles. "But I don't think it ever mattered what it was. Our hands were just so close that the sweetness never lasted, y'know?"

Patrick's mouth goes dry. He thinks for a moment that perhaps he's just hearing things, that he could even be dreaming and when he wakes up he'll laugh at how ridiculous this is. _Joe did not just say that, there's no way. It's not possible._

But the fingers that thread through his own are the most real things he's ever felt.

He squeezes back tightly, trying to ground himself. He gulps, eyes wide, and tries to beat down the fluttering in his chest. He's certain his face is bright red right now, and he knows the drying tears on his face certainly don't help his complexion, but Joe's thumb is stroking across his hand now and _oh god dammit just fucking kiss him already-_

"Let's go get you something to eat," Joe says finally, pulling away. Patrick feels disappointment and frustration and anger all aimed at himself as they both stand, their hands now separated. He's such a coward. He wants to reach out and grab Joe by the shoulders, wants to pull him in and kiss him breathless and lose himself in love. 

If he did, though, he's not sure what he'd do about the other two holes in his heart that need to be filled. 

Before they exit the bathroom, Joe runs a small washcloth under the water and holds it up to Patrick's face. He presses it against his cheeks and rubs away the tear tracks before moving onto his mouth, circling it gently before pulling the cloth away. Patrick now wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, let him drown in embarrassment. Joe smiles at him, and he can hardly bring himself to smile back because his mind is so frazzled. 

Together, they walk to the common room. Pete and Andy are both sitting on the lounge, scrolling through their phones. Patrick holds his breath as they both look up at the newcomers, fearing their reactions. He can't remember much, but he remembers yelling at Andy, and the image of him kicking Pete in the stomach plays over and over in his head. 

They both grin when they see him, and he holds back a small sigh of relief. 

"Hey, Patrick," Pete waves, standing up and making his way to the cupboard. He retrieves a box of cereal and a bowl, placing them on the table as he goes and fills a glass. 

Patrick meets Andy's eyes and smiles awkwardly. Andy's grin widens in return, and the next thing he knows, he's getting the life crushed out of him by toned, tattooed arms. He freezes, stunned into silence.

"Thank fucking God," Andy murmurs into his hood, and _holy shit,_ that should not be as hot as it is. "You're okay."

"Y-yeah," Patrick stammers, voice high.

"How are you feeling? Heard you throwing up in there."

"I'm better than... than before, if that's what you mean. Um... kinda thirsty."

"And that's what I'm here for!" Pete yells as he comes back with a glass of water in hand. His wolfish grin stretches from ear to ear, and it's so contagious Patrick finds himself with the same expression only seconds later. Andy pulls away, and again, Patrick's disappointed. He longs for someone to bring him warmth when everyone else only worsens the cold, he wants someone to kiss heat into him when everyone else throws ice down his throat.

When Pete's whiskey eyes stare into his own, he thinks that maybe there's more than one person who could do all those things. 

Patrick drinks the entire glass in one go, the itch in his throat finally satisfied, and moves onto his cereal. Pete's brought him Lucky Charms, and he rolls his eyes. Seriously, how childish can he get? He's in his thirties! Regardless, he spoons the sugary marshmallows into his mouth and almost groans at how good it tastes on his tongue. He devours the rest of his food greedily, feeling fuzzy and warm when he's finished. 

He overheats the very moment Pete cups his face in his hands and stares into his soul, his eyes burning with some unspeakable emotion. Pete reaches up and swipes away a stray crumb with a finger, smiling softly. Patrick's heart becomes a kick drum. What is everyone playing at? Why are they being so... affectionate?

He should ask, he knows he should, but asking might make them stop, and he doesn't want that. So he leans into Pete's touch and allows himself to have this. Even if it's platonic, even if none of this means anything, he can imagine that Pete's looking at him with a lover's gaze. He feels frustrated though, because just a moment ago he wanted for Andy to hold him like his life depended on it, and before that he was imagining kissing Joe until his lips bleed. It's messed up, it's not right, but he can't stop it. 

So he lets himself have this. And he wishes, with a heavy heart, that it meant something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/onaspectrum2006


	6. I Wanna Scream 'I Love You' From The Top Of My Lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I'm afraid that no one else will hear me.

It hurts. 

His pounding heart hurts when he goes to bed. His head hurts when he wakes up. His chest aches when he hears Patrick throwing up in the bathroom. His soul burns when he sees the younger man for the first time since last night.

And now he's cupping his face, their breaths mingling, and it _hurts._  

He needs to kiss him. He needs to show him how loved he is. He needs to own him, and he needs to be owned, all at once. 

Patrick leans into his touch, cheeks burning. _Just lean in, just tilt your head a little bit to the right,_ the voice in his head whispers, _and you'll be kissing him._ There wouldn't be an issue; Patrick said he loved him last night.

But he loves two other people as well. And Pete may be a bad person, he may be selfish, but he won't make a move. It's up to Patrick to decide how he feels. Pete already knows his own feelings; he wants nothing more than to pin Patrick against a wall and mark him up, to dirty that perfect skin and drown him in sin. He's not sure that's what Patrick wants, though, so his hand leaves the singer's cheek and a hollow feeling settles in his stomach. He leaves with an excuse that's only a half lie, something like, _'I'm just going for a walk, I'll be back soon.'_

He decides not to disclose the fact that he really just wants to jump off a bridge. He won't do it, ever, so there's no use scaring anyone, but it tugs at him. He can't take the easy way out, though, not this time.

So he walks to clear his thoughts, picks up a coffee on his way, and when he sees his name written on the cup, he reminds himself who he is.

His name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz The Third. 

And he will not be the selfish bastard he was once known as. 

He knows his feelings aren't going to go away, and he doesn't try to stifle them. Doing so would only make them worse.

So, instead, when he reenters the bus and finds Patrick on the lounge, he knows that it's not his choice to make. Patrick will decide whether or not Pete's heart will be left in tatters, and Pete needs to respect his decision. He goes to his bunk and lies down, his heart a leaden weight in his chest.

And it _hurts._

///

Andy's palms are shining with sweat in his lap, and he's twiddling his thumbs nervously as he glances up at the clock.

Ten. 

They're asking him at ten. 

It's five o'clock now, shadows shifting and sunlight catching on the winding rivers outside. They're somewhere in Washington State, and they're playing a show tomorrow in Seattle. Normally, he'll be humming with excitement, bouncing on his toes and practicing non-stop. 

But these circumstances aren't normal.

If something goes wrong tonight, if everything goes south, they may never even end up on that stage. 

He's never been more scared in his life. 

"Andy?" Joe's voice tears him away from his thoughts, and he's not sure if he should be angry or thankful. 

"Yeah?" He responds, looking up from his phone and meeting icy blue orbs.

"I, uh..." Joe trails off, scratching the back of his neck with one hand and using the other to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. "I think we should talk about what we're gonna do tonight."

The air in Andy's lungs is knocked out of him. He swallows, biting his lip, and nods. He pats the spot on the bunk next to him and Joe clambers up, their faces scant inches apart. Andy's cheeks heat up; Patrick's not the only person he wants to kiss. 

"So," Joe starts. "We're asking him tonight? At ten?"

Andy nods. "We'll go get dinner at Applebee's or something, eat, then go somewhere and... talk."

"Yeah. I kinda wanted to talk about, y'know, the talking part."

Andy gestures for him to continue, humming.

"What do we say?"

Fuck, they hadn't even thought about that. What _were_ they going to say? _Hey Patrick, you kind of told us you're in love with all three of us before you fell asleep last night and we all want to know if you meant it platonically or not,_ seems a bit too blunt. "I think... maybe... we could ask him what he remembers from last night?" Andy says. "If he does, it'll make the rest of this a bit easier."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we tell him what he said, and ask him what he meant by it." Andy sounds so much more confident than he actually feels, and a small trickle of pride makes its way into his chest. 

Joe sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair. "I just..." he tries to say, trailing off. He worries his lip between his teeth, his jaw tight. It seems as though he's got something he wants to say.

"What is it?" Andy presses, hoping it doesn't come out too forceful. 

Joe takes so long to respond, Andy's not sure if he heard him. He eventually blurts out what's haunting him, and Andy's heart leaps to his throat.

"What if he really meant what he said? What if he loves all of us, like, romantically?"

The blood drains from Andy's face. A feeling of dread crept up from the pit of his stomach. It turns out, he's been so focused on forgetting about tonight that he hasn't even considered the outcomes. He closes his eyes, excusing himself from the conversation, and wracks his mind. There are so many possibilities, so many paths they could go down. A single word, a single _letter,_ could change everything. 

He draws in a deep breath, exhaling shakily, and opens his eyes. Joe's looking at him as though he's about to decide the fate of the world, of humanity itself. 

He isn't that far off. 

Putting on a brave face, Andy makes eye contact with the guitarist. "We'll let him decide what he wants. If he wants... if he wants us, he can have us. If he doesn't, we'll leave him the hell alone."

Joe's eyes widen marginally, and he clears his throat. "D-do you want him to mean it?"

Andy gapes at him. "What?"

"Do you want him to be with us?"

"You're asking if I want to kiss him."

Joe flushes and averts his eyes. "I-I mean... kind of?"

Andy tries to calm his breathing. "I... I do." Joe doesn't look entirely disgusted with him, which he supposes is a good sign. He inhales through his nose. "And you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You asked me. It's only fair that I ask you."

Joe pulls at the ends of his sleeves and stares at the wall like it'll somehow melt if he glares hard enough. He crosses his arms over his midriff and huffs. "Fine..." he moves his gaze to the bed and continues in a quiet voice. "I do. I think I always have."

"Well, isn't that adorable."

They both snap their attention to the new voice in the room and find Pete staring at them. He's leaning against the bunks across the isle with a smirk on his face, and Andy wants to shove his teeth down his throat because he looks so _smug_ , like he's _proud of himself_ for listening to their conversation. 

Andy's about to retort when Pete cuts him off. "Looks like I'm not the only one with a celebrity crush."

Both of their mouths drop open, and they scream _"WHAT?"_ so loud that the bus practically shakes. Pete staggers back in surprise, his calm façade falling, before he regains his composure and grins. Andy and Joe scowl at him, but he hardly seems fazed by it. If anything, it only boosts his ego.

"The hell do you want, asshole?" Joe demands, hands curling into fists in the sheets.

"Joe, you wound me," Pete slaps a hand over his heart dramatically. "I was just wondering what's got you both so tense."

"We have every right to be tense, Pete," Andy says defensively. "Tonight's probably going to decide the future of the band, and we only just came back. Of course we're tense."

Pete's features soften. "Yeah," he says, voice soft. "I know."

"Then why are you still here?" Joe asks, obviously not satisfied with Pete's answer.

"Because..." Pete scuffs his shoe on the carpet and looks away, his shoulders hunching. "Because I needed to know if you guys felt the same way I do."

Andy's brows knit together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Pete laughs softly. Andy's heart drops to his feet, through the bus and onto the road when he gets his answer.

"You're not the only ones who want to kiss him, y'know."

No one can speak. Andy's mind is blank and full all at once. He feels goosebumps rise on his arms and his mouth drops open slightly. He shakes his head, as if that will somehow change what he just heard, as if it will stop all of this from crashing down on him.

Pete's answer changes nothing and everything. 

Because no matter what, tonight will decide the future.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finish reading Queen Of Shadows by Sarah J. Maas and oof, my heart. Sarah is definitely my favorite author, I recommend her series Throne Of Glass (Queen of Shadows is the 4th book in the series). She's a gorgeous writer and her ideas are both brilliant and unique. I need to read the next book immediately!


	7. The Earth Starts To Crumble And The Heavens Roll Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling to exist with you, and without you. 
> 
> TW for brief mentions of self-harm and several references to abuse and abusive relationships.

"We're getting dinner, you coming?" 

Patrick's head snaps up from his novel and he yells out a quick 'yeah' before putting his bookmark in place and tugging on his shoes. He's still wearing his hoodie, but it's so cold he throws on a jacket over it. He doesn't understand how Andy can survive with just a sweater, but he doesn't mind. It's easier to see the bulge of his muscles through the thin material, and Patrick spends most of the walk through the parking lot of Applebee's staring at them. He flushes dark red and suddenly finds the dirt on his shoes very interesting when Pete catches him looking. The bassist smirks and pats Patrick on the shoulder, a twinkle in his eyes. 

The place on his cheek where Pete had touched him this morning feels like a brand as his gaze lingers on the back of Pete's head.

Within a few minutes, his attention is dragged to a menu. He orders something small; between the butterflies in his stomach and the possibility that this morning's events could repeat themselves at any given time, he doesn't think he'll be able to eat a large meal. He's rather surprised to find that the other three men choose similarly; normally they'll all be wolfing down plate after plate, and Patrick will eventually tire of their teasing and join them. He'd lost weight via portion control, and he doesn't want to put it on again. He'd promised to himself that he would stay thin.

His promise, like most others, has broken.

He's noticed the extra pounds he's gained since Fall Out Boy started writing again, and he hates himself. He rakes his eyes over the bodies of his friends enviously, wishing he could look at least a little more like that. Handsome, likeable, _actually fucking attractive._ Not some sweaty bald dude who finds, every other morning, that his jeans have failed to reach above his thighs. He can feel the waist of his pants cutting into his hips, and it hurts. _If you hadn't been such a pig,_ his mind hisses, _you wouldn't have a problem._

He's only just finished his plate when Joe stands. "I'm going to the bathroom," he says quickly, and then he's gone. 

Andy and Pete both turn to look at him. They've finished their food already, so they must've been waiting for him. His mind darkens at the thought, and he reminds himself that the razorblade in his bunk is there for a reason. He deserves it, he's convinced himself, with a little bit of help from someone he would rather not think about right now. He'll have to go back to them when the tour is over, he knows, but again, he's letting himself have this. 

Pete clears his throat and Patrick's attention locks onto him. "S-so, uh..." he starts, eyes darting around the room frantically. "We were, y'know, th-thinking that we should, maybe... talk... after dinner."

Patrick's heart drops to his feet. He gulps and forces on a tight smile. "W-what were you planning on talking about?"

Andy answers him this time. "We wanted to talk about last night."

Fuck. 

 _Fuck._  

They hate him, _they fucking hate him._ He's said or done something which has screwed them all over, he's dug their graves, he's made their beds and now they have to lie in them. Their lives are over, _Fall Out Boy is over,_ all because of him. Their careers are finished, _done,_ already gone. 

_And it's all his fault._

He impresses himself by responding with something other than the constant stream of  _everything's over and it'sallyourfaultyourfaultyourfault_ playing in his head. "Did," his voice breaks, so he tries again. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah," Pete says, voice low and lacking its usual cheeriness. "It's kinda big, too."

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

Joe comes back before anyone can say anything else, and something dark flickers in his eyes when he sees how the mood has changed. It doesn't last any longer than the blasts of lightning outside, but Patrick notices.

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

"Are you guys ready to go?" Joe asks quietly. He won't meet Patrick's eyes, won't even _look_ at him, instead facing Andy and Pete. They've probably thought this through, probably planned how they're going to let him down easy. Patrick hopes they don't; he hopes they yell in his face and scream and hit him and show him just how badly he's messed up. He hates it when he's beaten, flinches when someone so much as raises their hand, but he knows he deserves it this time, knows that it isn't just a side-effect of drugs, anger and alcohol. 

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

Joe receives two nods, and a stiff third one, and then they're leaving, and Patrick can't breathe, and _fuck he's so scared._ Maybe they won't even talk, they'll just drop him on the side of the road and leave him there.

At the moment, he kind of wishes they would. 

They walk back across the parking lot and over to the bus, Patrick trailing behind. He drags his feet on the ground, hoping to delay the inevitable. Maybe, if he really focuses, he'll disappear. He wants to so badly. 

He finally enters the bus, the warmth wrapping around him like a blanket, but he wishes it were a shield when he sees the pained look in whiskey colored eyes. For a moment, just a heartbeat, he loses himself in their depth. They're endless, infinite. He wants to drown in that rich sea, wants to forget about everything else and be surrounded by brown. 

But those eyes look away just as quickly as they came.

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

Andy leads them to the backroom, sitting down on the bed. It's been made, Patrick notices, the sheets smooth and the pillows fluffed. Joe and Pete sit next to the drummer, and Patrick goes to join them, but Andy shakes his head and gestures to the beanbag across the room. 

Patrick retrieves the blue bag slowly, fighting the stinging in his eyes. His throat burns with words he can't say, and he swallows as though it will somehow make them go away.

They don't. They never do.  _I love you,_ he wants to say, _I think I love all three of you but I'm really not sure and I might not know if I want to kiss you but **please don't leave me.**_

He sits down and looks up tentatively, fighting the shaking in his hands and the wobbling in his jaw. The other three men look tense, lips tight and shoulders hunched. 

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

"Ok, so, you're probably wondering what it is we need to discuss," Joe says, and Patrick inclines his head slowly. The guitarist sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "How much do you remember? From last night, I mean."

Patrick's hands become fists. "I remember... fighting with you," he starts, voice thick. "And then I got drunk."

"And then?" Joe raises his eyebrows. 

Patrick's mind is blurred as he thinks back. There's blobs of color and flashes of sound, but nothing that makes sense. "I don't remember."

Wrong answer.

Andy slumps, Joe sighs again, Pete mutters a curse under his breath, and Patrick is seconds away from crying.

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

There's a storm brewing in Pete's eyes when he speaks. "Guess we have to fill you in, huh?" He smiles tightly, but when Patrick doesn't return it, it disappears. "Alright, so you left and got drunk, and then a few hours later you texted Joe and asked him to pick you up," his face darkens. "You said someone might've... put something in your drink. Joe had you on speaker so me and Andy both knew, and we all ran to the bar to get you. We were looking for you, but..."

The words seem lodged in Petes' throat. He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. Joe notices and picks up where he left off. "Pete and I couldn't find you, but Andy did. You, uh, there were these guys, four of them. They were wearing hoodies so we couldn't see their faces, but, anyway, they were taking you out of the bar. Andy followed them and when they..." he trails off. Patrick's fidgeting is endless, pulling at his fingers and bouncing his leg. Joe composes himself and continues. "When they tried to get you into a car, Andy attacked them. He managed to get them off of you, but one of them got away and hit him in the head."

Patrick remembers. He remembers the foul smelling playground. He remembers the van and the hooded faces. He remembers Andy fighting, remembers Andy choking one. 

He wishes that having a knife at his throat was a dream. He wishes that the dull thud of the pipe hitting Andy's head was fantasy, something his subconscious had thrown up to scare him. 

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

The drummer takes up the role of storyteller. "I got knocked out- I'm okay, don't worry- and from what I know, Pete saw what was going on and did the same thing as me while Joe called the cops. They arrested the... thugs, and let us go."

A hopeful, optimistic part of Patrick hopes that maybe this is it, this is what they wanted to talk about and they just needed to know if he was okay.

That stupid part of him is crushed when Andy finishes. 

"We took you back to the bus, and Pete helped you get changed will Joe got me an icepack." He touches his fingers to the back of his head briefly. "Pete told us you wanted to see everyone, and you were pretty much asleep when we came in, but... but you said something. To all of us."

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

Patrick's shaking hands are joined by the rest of his body. The dampness in his eyes comes close to overflowing, and he shuts his eyes tightly to block it out. Sweat shines on his forehead and his heart is beating far too quickly for it to be healthy. It takes all of his will, all of his concentration and determination, to choke out his question. "What was it?"

Pete sighs and opens his eyes.

They're lined with silver. 

Patrick takes a deep breath and holds it, bracing himself. 

"I'll quote you, okay?"

Patrick nods as well as he can. 

"'I can't believe I fell in love with all three of you.'"

Patrick's world falls apart.

Ice fills his lungs, glass shatters in his heart. The tears he's been keeping away sneak past his barricades and snake their way down his face. He doesn't gasp, doesn't shout in surprise. He doesn't think he can even feel his tongue. The ground is splitting beneath his feet, the sturdy wall he's been keeping up is crumbling, and the sky is fracturing like the blue light that strikes the earth.

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

"Did you mean it?"

Joe's voice is a light in the dark, a buoy in an endless sea. It's thousands of melodies and millions of choirs, angels singing and harps playing. 

He wants to scream that he did, he wants to shout it so loudly that the earth quakes. He wants to kiss them until he can't breathe, and then kiss them even more. 

But he can't.

Because there's a snake looming over him, threatening to pounce. As the small mouse, he can't escape the suffocating coils. He can't reach the safety of home, he can't run free. Smooth scales caress his skin with a lover's touch. Venom drips into his veins like nectar. The snake is poisoning him, it's tightening around him, and it'll kill him if he squirms. It'll sink its fangs into him, drink his blood like it's the finest wine, squeeze him so tightly his last breath will be in its hold.

It'll destroy him.

It'll ruin him. 

So he shakes his head.

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

"I have a boyfriend."

He doesn't hear any stunned gasps. He doesn't see wide eyes or open mouths or hands covering lips. He doesn't hear shouts or whoops or groans. He doesn't see shaking heads or hating eyes.

But he knows that they're there.

_All_

_Your_

**_Fault._ **

 

 


	8. Some Secrets Weren't Meant To Be Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're the only place that feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to clarify something about the lyric references that you, as the reader, will find in this story.
> 
> If the lyric is from a song that is released after the SRAR tour that this story is themed in, then it will be an unintentional reference. Basically, that means that whoever says it doesn't know that it'll be put into a song.
> 
> If the lyric is from a song that was released before or in SRAR it will be an intentional reference. There won't be as many of these, but if they show up, then whoever says them knows that it's a lyric from a song and is using it as such.
> 
> Hope that wasn't too confusing. Just wanted to clear things up ;)

_I have a boyfriend._

His lips turn down at the corners and he buries his face in his hands, trying to blink away the tears. They slide down his face and drip off his chin, falling to the floor with a barely audible sound. He doesn't have the willpower to wipe them away. He wants to sleep, to escape and forget the world, but his body refuses. His eyes are heavy and his body is slow, as though he's frozen.

The events of earlier repeat themselves in his mind. Patrick had sobbed out his confession. Pete had felt his heart splinter and crack and shatter into millions of tiny pieces. He'd shaken his head and left the room, consumed by grief. Joe and Andy had followed soon after, feet dragging and heads down. 

He'd heard Patrick's sobs from the backroom, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about them.

He needs sleep, so badly, but it won't come. 

Thoughts roam through his head, restless and persistent. 

He might as well make something out of them.

He retrieves a notebook and pen, flipping it open and scribbling words down on the page.

_I'm struggling to exist with you, and without you._

_This is my pity party._

_I'm just a full tank away from freedom._

He writes some more, profound scribbling on lined paper, before sleep finally takes him.

He hopes Patrick will still be there to turn his words into music when he wakes up.

///

The show is, to put it lightly, hell. The lights are too bright, the music is too loud, the arena is too hot. The fans screaming their lyrics has been comforting, in a weird kind of way. It still amazes him that people pay money, actual _money,_ to see them play. It's overwhelming, sometimes.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, temptation overwhelms him.

Pete eyes Patrick longingly, heart thrumming in his chest when he steps as close as he dares only to back away moments later. A part of him wants to hang all over him, like he used to. He wonders what Patrick's reaction would be if he performed his usual trick during Mr. Brightside. He might have a boyfriend, but that won't stop him from pecking a quick kiss to those deadly cheekbones. 

When they play Grand Theft Autumn, he decides that fuck it, he's got nothing to lose.

As Patrick leans on his shoulder, he turns his head and places his lips to the side of the singer's neck.

The fans scream outrageously loud, waving their arms and jumping around. Pete thinks he sees one girl pass out, and is relieved to find that her friend catches her before she hits the floor. The 'Peterick' shippers are probably the ones screaming the loudest. He knows that this'll be all over Tumblr, saved as GIFs and photos, and when he finds them he'll save them all to his phone.

Patrick's reaction, however, is less spectacular. His eyes bulge, blood draining from his face, and he practically runs back to the microphone. He doesn't move much for the rest of the show, and refuses to meet anyone's eyes when the exit the stage. 

Pete fucked up.

 _Again._  

When he enters his dressing room, he decides he needs to apologize, as much as the thought makes him want to throw up. Not just for tonight, but last night as well. He needs Patrick to know that none of this is his fault. He fixes his hair in the mirror and sprays cologne over his chest, straightening his shirt and pulling the sleeves of his jacket down. 

There's a sort of invisible string that leads him to Patrick. He follows it, picturing it as golden in his mind's eye, and soon finds himself outside of Patrick's dressing room. His stomach does several flips and he wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. He swallows thickly and raises his fist.

He's just about to knock when a taller, broader man grabs his hand. Pete jerks away immediately, turning to look at his attacker.

When he does, he gulps. 

It's a man who looks to be about in his thirties, powerfully built. His green eyes take in Pete's form slowly, drinking it in like it's liquor. He shifts uncomfortably under the man's gaze. He's wearing a black suit and tie, with a little flower sewn into his breast pocket. He has a dark, curly beard; it extends from his sideburns and ends at his chin. It's long and, by the looks of it, well kept.

He's the definition of a rich bastard. 

"Who are you?" Pete asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion. It's not uncommon for people to sneak backstage, but they're usually fans bouncing on the balls of their converse-clad feet, wearing ripped jeans and loose shirts. Not rich men with slick hair and fancy suits. 

The man frowns. "Why do you need to know?" He counters, voice rich and deep. "Who are _you?"_

"Pete Wentz. The bassist from Fall Out Boy." He's getting more confused by the second. Who comes to a show without even knowing the band?

"Oh, right, that's who you are." The man rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, quirking a brow. "Why do you need to know who I am?"

Pete's fingers curl into fists, nails digging into his palm. "It might have something to do with the fact that you're outside of my friend's dressing room. Who are you, and what the hell are you doing?"

The man scoffs. "The matters of rich men mean nothing to street rats."

 _"Excuse me?"_ Pete hopes that this guy has as much money as he claims, because if he keeps on acting like this his suit's sure to be covered in blood. "I'm not a fucking _street rat,_ you dick. _Who are you?"_

"Gable," the man says. "Gable Aristide. Esteemed lawyer and known millionaire. I'm surprised you haven't heard of me."

"I don't care about how much money you have or how popular you are," Pete spits, glaring. "I just want to know why you're here, and why you're acting like you own the goddamn place."

Gable scoffs. "I might not own the place," he says with a smirk. "But I most certainly own the boy behind this door."

If Pete wasn't furious before, he sure is now.

Anger curls, hot and unstoppable, in his gut, like a fire threatening to burn him from the inside out. He grits his teeth and puts on his most threatening face. Gable acts bored, looking at him as though he's watching a baby deer walk for the first time. Pete wants to punch his teeth in and show him what happens when you mess with so-called 'street rats.' 

Mr. Aristide just stated that Patrick is _his,_ as though Patrick is an _object,_ a _doll,_ some kind of prize to be won. Pete hates him for it, hates him more than he's ever hated himself. Patrick is so much more than an object; he's the sun in winter, he's water on a hot day, he's rain during a wildfire, he's music in the deadly silence. He's Pete's will to live, Pete's missing puzzle piece, his light in the dark.

He'll be damned if he lets anyone see him as anything less.

 _"You do not own Patrick,"_ he snarls, venom lacing his words. _"He's not some doll, he isn't some trophy. He's God's best angel, he's everything this world needs. **Don't you dare speak of him like he's less than that."**_

Gable's eyes widen a fraction, but he seems mostly unfazed. "What happens if I do?" He says. "You know, for all that you build him up to be, he's really not that great."

_That's_

_**It.**  _

He reels his fist back, channeling all of his anger, and swings it into Gable's jaw. It hits home and he staggers back, bracing a hand against the wall to keep himself from falling over. Before he can react, Pete punches him again, in the nose this time. There's a sickening crunch, and blood covers his knuckles. Gable cries out in surprise and agony, scrambling to cover his face, and Pete kicks him in the chest. He gasps and doubles over, clutching his stomach. Tears of red leak from his broken nose, sliding over his lips and down his chin.

Pete brings his hand back, ready to slap him across the cheek, when the door beside them swings open.

Patrick freezes where he stands, eyebrows raised and eyes round behind his glasses. He looks between Pete and the man on the ground frantically, processing the situation. Pete wipes his hand on the bottom of his shirt, but he knows that Patrick will figure out what had happened anyway. 

When he finally moves, he drops to his knees and reaches for Gable. He places a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, and the man looks up at him with shimmering eyes. _Crocodile tears,_ Pete thinks with disgust, but it's washed away when he sees the look of pure horror on Patrick's face.

"G-Gable?" He says softly, hands trembling. "What happened?"

Gable coughs, blood splattering on his shirt, and points at Pete. "Your bassist," he gasps. "He... he attacked me."

"I," Pete tries, hands raised, but when he Patrick looks at him the words die in his throat. He can't read the singer's expression; brows furrowed, jaw tight, riptide eyes swimming with emotion.

"Is... is that true, Pete?"

Pete feels his eyes water at the betrayed expression Patrick wears. "I-I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean- I wasn't-"

"I don't know what I did, Patrick," Gable whines like a kicked puppy. "He just... jumped me."

"No!" Pete yells back. "No, he was- Patrick, he was being an asshole, he was saying all this shit about you, I-"

"Pete," Patrick says. He looks away, running a hand through his hair. "Please, just..."

Pete feels ice enter his lungs. He reaches out a beseeching hand, trying to get Patrick to look at him, because he needs to understand that this _isn't what it looks like, he just made a mistake, this guy went where he shouldn't have, please-_

"Go back to the bus," Patrick tells him finally. He hands a tissue to Gable, who wipes his face and continues to cry. 

Pete feels as though the earth has cracked beneath him. "What?"

"Please, go back to the bus."

"B-but, but he said-"

"I know, Pete," Patrick snaps, finally looking at him. He's holding back tears, too. He sniffles wetly, lip trembling. "I know. Please. Leave"

"I..." Pete tries one last time to redeem himself, but stops when he sees the look on Patrick's face.

He appears... defeated. His shoulders are slumped and his cheeks are wet, and he's shaking violently. He gives Pete one last glance before turning back to Gable. 

Gable looks Pete in the eyes, something devious flickering in that swamp of green, and then he leans forward and kisses Patrick.

The redhead stiffens, hands limp at his sides, but when Gable pulls him closer he wraps his arms around the man's waist. Pete slaps a hand to his mouth to muffle his gasp when he sees Gable's lips part; judging by the little sigh Patrick makes, they're kissing with tongue. Gable's hands run up and down Patrick's body, caressing his sides and feeling him up. Patrick chokes out a muffled moan when his hands skim over his ass, gasping into the mouth of the green-eyed beast.

Pete can't watch any longer.

He turns on his heel and sprints down the hall, shoes squeaking on the polished tiles. 

He thinks he hears someone call his name, but he blocks it out and keeps running.

_I have a boyfriend._


	9. I Keep My Jealousy Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause it's all mine.
> 
> TW for verbal and physical abuse, and graphic depictions of violence. This chapter focuses mostly around an abusive relationship, so procede with caution.

The door slams shut behind them. 

Patrick falls to the ground at the same time.

"Well, well, well, look at what we have here."

If it were anyone else, Patrick would laugh and tell them how over used that line is, say that they should get some of their own material and stop wasting his time. 

Now, though, the words make his breath catch in his throat, and he forces himself to look at the man before him.

Gable's face is smeared with red. His suit is ruffled and there's a prominent shoe print in his side, dusty and large and unmistakably Pete's. He toes at Patrick's hat, which has fallen to the ground, and frowns deeply. His gelled hair has come undone and a few loose strands fall infront of his eyes. Along with the moon-wide pools of green, it makes him look like a maniac, like a predator finding its prey.

He may as well be.

"Gable," Patrick gasps as he scoots back, hands held infront of his face. "G-Gable, please, I-"

 _"Shut up!"_ Patrick flinches and stops dead. Gable towers above him, forest-like eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "You don't have the right to speak."

"I-I'm sorry-"

He feels the slap before it even happens. His face jerks to the side and he can't do anything for a good ten seconds, can't bring himself to block the next blow. He backs up until he hits the wall, shielding his face with his arms as he sniffles. Both of his cheeks burn like electric fire. They're probably bright red. 

They won't leave bruises, but the kick to the ribs definitely will. 

He falls sideways, clutching his side with a cry of pain. He groans as he hits the floor, and the cold tile pressing against his cheek is a nice contrast to the throbbing in his chest. He lies there, on the floor of his own dressing room, and the analogy about life being a ferris wheel has never been more true. Only a few minutes ago, he was on top of the world, loved by thousands, playing his heart out. Now he's here, sobbing as he wishes that he had never told Pete to leave. 

He doesn't want Pete to get hurt, though. He'd been lucky to land those blows and take Gable by surprise, but if he'd stayed...

Patrick is broken from his thoughts when a hairy hand squishes his face against the tile. It presses down firmly, and he squirms in a futile attempt to get away. The hand leaves his cheek and a boot takes its place. Dirt covers his cheek and the boot grinds down, spreading it. He groans again, but doesn't squirm this time. Fighting only makes it worse. His jaw begins to ache, the cold floor biting into his cheek. The boot begins to move in circles, rubbing his face against the floor. He hiccups, tears dripping across his cheeks. He licks his lips and tastes salt. Gable leans down. 

"Bet you thought you'd get away with it," he snarls, pressing harder. "How long have you been warming his bed?"

Patrick sobs and tries to speak. The boot lets up a little and he gasps. "I-I haven't, Gable, p-please, I wasn't-"

"Liar." The boot returns. "Don't think I didn't notice how he kissed you."

"No! It's n-not what it looks like!" Patrick's words are garbled because of how his face is contorted, but he manages to shout them all the same. 

Gable takes his foot away, and that stupidly hopeful part of Patrick returns, thinking that he'd somehow managed to convince the man that he wasn't cheating. It's never happened before, but maybe tonight he's lucky, maybe tonight he'll walk away with just a few bruises.

Patrick decides he'll call that part of him Idiot, because just as he's about to get up from the floor he receives a brutal punch and is knocked back down again. 

"You are _mine,_ Patrick," Gable says lowly, his breath hot against Patrick's ear. "You belong to me, understand? You are _nothing_ without me."

Patrick nods frantically, not trusting his voice. It'll break and quaver. Gable will only hit him harder. He deigns to look up at Gable and his breathing becomes uneven when he sees the man standing over him, gaze dark and enraged. His arms are crossed and his jaw is tight. He is cruelty incarnate. 

"No one else will ever want you. You're lucky I do."

Patrick sobs at the words. At first, he'd told himself that they weren't true, it was just a ruse to stir him up. Now, though... he believes him. He has nothing. He is nothing.

"Stand up."

He tries, pushing himself up on his arms, but they give out beneath him and he stays down. He fights the trembling in his body and pushes up again, managing to sit up. Gable steps off of him, allowing him to move his legs. He leans forward, intending to stand, but his legs are wobbling too much for him to rise. He's on his hands and knees, panting like a dog, and he feels dirty and used.

"Are you deaf? I said _stand up!"_ Gable swings his foot and kicks him in the stomach. Patrick shouts and forces his arms to still. He shakily pulls himself to his feet, swaying and dizzy. He braces a hand against the counter to keep from collapsing again. Gable would be furious if he did that.

"'M sorry," he breathes, refusing to make eye contact. He sees his hat near the door and longs to grab it, to hide behind it and forget about the green-eyed beast.

"I don't care," Gabe says. "You're mine, I watch everything you do. And I refuse to let anyone else touch you."

He stomps forward and grabs Patrick's chin in a pistol grip, forcing their eyes to meet. One pair is flooded with tears. The other is burning with rage. One is the mouse, the other is the snake.

Patrick wonders if, perhaps, he'll finally be flooded with venom and greeted with death.

Instead, he's kissed sloppily.

He can't help but sob into Gable's mouth as the man's tongue slips past his lips, rubbing against his own. His knees go weak and he hates himself for the moan he lets out when an arm wraps around his waist and pulls him close. Something hard presses against his thigh, and panic rips through him when it grinds against his hip. He's not ready. He doesn't think he'll ever be. At least, not ready for Gable. 

That's what they'd argued about on the phone the day Patrick went drinking. He'd been nervous to answer, but the conversation had started off fine. Well, as fine as it could be. Gable asked how he'd been, if he was seeing anyone. He practically demanded Patrick to tell him if he had eyes for anyone else. Patrick hated lying, but if he wanted to be at least a little recognizable after his next encounter with Gable, he'd have to. Eventually, Gable had confessed that he'd bought tickets for Fall Out Boy's next show, and that he'd be there to greet him backstage. Patrick's heart had stopped in his chest, and he'd tried to sound jovial when Gable asked him for his thoughts.

Gable had then pitched the idea of staying at a hotel together, and Patrick had freaked. He'd flung out a half-assed excuse, something like 'maybe we should wait until after the tour' and 'I'm not sure if I'm ready.' Gable tried to persuade him, but Patrick had held his ground. The millionaire grew angry, accusing Patrick of cheating on him. He'd assumed immediately that because his boyfriend didn't want sex, he was seeing something else. Patrick had lost the restraint he usually had during their arguments, and their once passive conversation had progressed into a shouting match. 

He wishes he'd just submitted like he always did. Maybe then, his body wouldn't be screaming in pain.

Finally, Gable pulls away. "You're being too friendly with that bassist," he breathes, chest heaving. "I don't like the way he touches you."

Patrick's own chest rises and falls unnaturally. He can feel a panic attack stalking him, ready to pounce. He shakes his head, water dripping onto the ground as he does so.

Gable's face softens slightly. "I'm doing this because I love you, Patrick. Remember that."

 _If you loved me,_ Patrick thinks, _you wouldn't beat me within an inch of my life. You wouldn't force me to kiss you, you wouldn't force me to touch you. You hate me._

He'll probably be murdered in his sleep if he opens his mouth, so he stays silent. 

Gable pecks him on the lips, and he has to stop himself from wrinkling his nose in disgust. Instead, he stands there, frozen like a statue as his boyfriend pulls away. The man looks at himself in the mirror, cringing, and grabs Patrick's comb to fix his hair. He fishes around in the makeup bag and pulls out a wet wipe, cleaning away the blood on his face hastily. He runs his fingers through his beard and turns back to Patrick, eyes hardening. 

"If anyone sees, tell them you fell," he snaps, voice cold. "Got it?"

"Y-yes," Patrick says shakily, struggling to speak through his tears. 

"Good."

With that, he turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Patrick waits until he can no longer hear Gable's footsteps, and when he's certain the man is gone, he crumbles to the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them tightly, nails digging into his skin as he cries. He shuts his eyes, hiding his face in his jeans, and feels the fabric dampen in a matter of seconds. He's shaking so violently he's practically vibrating, and his breath comes in short, staccato bursts. His lungs ache, longing for oxygen, but no matter how much he gasps, it won't reach him. The panic attack rips through his body, rendering him a small, petrified mess. He bites his lip in an attempt to stop the tears, but no matter how hard he tries, they just keep coming. 

Why, he wonders, hadn't he broken it off when he had the chance? He could've ended the relationship at any time, but instead, he held onto the ridiculous hope that the fights would blow over and the bruises would fade. Now, his partner has turned into a leech, sucking any and all life from his battered body. He'd thought he was loved, he'd thought he would finally be able to settle down and be happy. When they'd kissed for the first time, his heart had swelled at the idea of a ring on his finger. Elisa had divorced him over the phone while he was touring for Soul Punk, and when he'd finally come home, a pen and divorce papers awaited him. 

He had thought, maybe, that Gable would be able to heal him, to help him feel alive again.

How foolish he was. 

Bad decisions have lead him here. His foolishness has lead him here. 

Deep down, he knows that Gable's words are true.

_You are nothing without me._

He wasn't anything in the first place. 

 

 


	10. I'm Sleeping My Way Out Of This One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With anyone who will lie down. 
> 
> TW for references to abuse.

Andy's shoes squeak on the tiles as he makes his way down the halls of the stadium, searching for Patrick's dressing room. The singer still hasn't come back yet, and he's starting to get worried. Joe's walking alongside him, hair flowing freely. Andy gazes at his curls from a distance, stifling the urge to touch them and comb them. He remembers when he had curly hair and decides that it looks much better on Joe, despite how hard it is to maintain. He's always had awesome hair. Andy's always admired him for it. 

"You played well tonight," he says, the sound echoing in the empty space. It's better than the silence, at least.

Joe smiles faintly at him. "You too. Being a drummer's probably exhausting."

"It can be," Andy laughs. It feels good, warming his insides; they haven't had a proper conversation since last night, only quick questions about the show and clipped responses. 

They fall silent again. 

Andy's palms sweat when he sees Patrick's name on the door. He remembers the rivers streaming from his murky orbs, remembers the crushing guilt that threatened to put him in the same situation as he'd left the room. He can still hear the soft sobs, the little hitches of breath and the sharp gasps...

Wait.

He presses his ear to the door when he detects a sound inside. It's almost exactly like...

Patrick's crying.

_Fuck._

"Patrick!" Andy shouts, banging on the door with his fist. The sounds from inside stop, but doesn't know if that means Patrick's okay, and he _has_ to know. "Open up!"

He tries the handle, the brass slipping in his wet palms, but when he manages to get a grip it seems that the door is locked. He tries to shove it open, pushing with the force of a battering ram. The wood quakes, but remains standing. He grits his teeth in frustration, throwing himself against the door. It fails and he spits out a curse.

Questions whirl around in his head. Why won't Patrick open the door? Why hadn't he come back yet? _Why is he crying?_

There's shuffling inside, and the painted wood swings open to reveal a small, weeping Patrick. His hat is crooked on his head and his shirt is twisted slightly to the side. "H-hi Andy," he says softly, voice strained. 

Andy jumps forward and cups his face in his hands, searching for any damage. Apart from the tears dripping down his cheeks, he seems unharmed. "What happened?" 

"Nothing," Patrick responds a bit too quickly. At Andy's suspicious face, he shrinks in on himself. "J-just feeling kind of down, that's all. Wh-what are you doing here?"

"We came to get you," Joe answers, stepping forward with creased brows. "You were taking a while."

Patrick averts his eyes, instead choosing to stare at his shoes. "Sorry. Something... something came up."

"Like what?" Andy moves forward again, frowning when Patrick steps away.

"I-I, um," the singer wrings his hands together, gulping audibly. "I had a visitor. A-a friend of mine."

A horrible thought strikes him. "Did they upset you?"

Patrick blanches, mouth dropping open before snapping back up. "No!" He shouts quickly, shaking his head. "No, th-they just... they told me that their, their dog died. I-I really liked their dog. S-so, um, I cried. After they left. Sorry."

Andy doesn't really believe him, and he doubts Joe does, either, but it's late and they're all tired so he decides to drop it. He nods his head in understanding. "It's okay, Patrick. Just wanted to make sure no one, like, hurt you or anything."

Patrick's eyes flicker with something akin to guilt, clouding with pain. He pales so much it's as if he has no blood left in his face, but Andy sees that one of his cheeks is darker than the other.

"Are you... wearing makeup?" He asks, hoping his tone isn't too accusatory. 

Patrick's breath catches and he scrambles to cover his cheek. "N-no!" Andy narrows his eyes, and he caves in, shoulders curling. "I-I just... wanted to try it on? I mean, it was right there and I thought 'why not,' y'know?"

No, he does not know. Patrick laughs nervously. Andy and Joe don't join him. He trails off when he notices that they don't see any humor in the situation, blushing. It's a much better look than the ghostly complexion he had before, Andy notes. 

"If something happened to you," Joe starts, raising a brow. "You'd tell us, right?"

Patrick nods a bit too fervently. "Yeah, of course. I'd never hide anything from you guys."

Again, Andy doesn't believe him. He braces his hands on his hips and sighs, knowing that they won't get anything out of Patrick. Not tonight, at least. "Come on, let's go back to the bus." He gestures over his shoulder with a thumb in the direction he assumes the exit is in. "We've got a hotel tonight."

Normally, Patrick would be ecstatic about staying at a hotel; he can shower, rest on a comfortable bed, have some privacy. It's one of his favorite things about touring. 

Instead, Patrick gulps again and nods, blush fading. Andy thinks he sees a spot of sickly yellow on his chin, but shrugs it off. _It's probably just the lights,_ he reasons as they make their way back down the hall. He thinks he sees Patrick limping, but before he can get a closer look they're outside and swallowed by darkness. He blinks as his eyes adjust, walking to the bus with quick strides. 

"U-um, can you walk slower, please?" A disembodied voice calls softly, and Joe and Andy turn to see Patrick stumbling after them, and _yes, he is definitely limping._ Consequently, he's fallen far behind; they're nearly at the door of the bus, he's still at the traffic light. 

When he finally catches up, his cheeks are flushed. He smiles apologetically but Andy's more focused on the way he leans more of his weight on one foot, and how one of his hands hovers over his stomach. Together, they walk to the bus, but they move much slower now. Andy spares several concerned glances at Patrick, and he thinks he sees Joe doing the same, but the singer doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he looks down at his boots, hat shielding his eyes. 

Finally, they're surrounded by warmth and light. Andy and Joe shrug off their jackets, but surprisingly, Patrick keeps his on. "It's cold," he murmurs when he notices them staring. He wraps his arms around himself and makes to slip away to the bunks, but Joe places a hand on his shoulder and turns him around.

"I don't think you should go in there," he says gently. Patrick's eyes flood with confusion, and Joe answers his unspoken question. "Pete's pissed off about something, and he's claimed the bunks as his cool-off spot. He was throwing stuff around before, and it looks like he's calmed down a bit now, but he's probably still angry."

Patrick's face looses all of its color yet again. He swallows thickly, wringing his hands together, and tucks his hat down to further hide his eyes. He lets out a shaky exhale and speaks so quietly Andy strains to hear him. "Maybe... maybe I could talk to him?"

Joe shakes his head, but Andy stands and grabs the brim of Patrick's hat. He tilts it up, despair washing through him when he sees the darkness in the younger man's face. Patrick blinks rapidly and takes a shuddering breath. Andy is torn between holding him so tightly he can't breathe and kissing him until his lungs give out. 

"I think that's a good idea," he says, hoping he sounds encouraging. "You're usually pretty good at getting him to relax."

Patrick gives him a small, pained smile and nods. Andy lets go of his hat and stares as he makes his way to the door. He raises his fist and everyone goes silent. Andy holds his breath, crossing his fingers and toes. 

He knocks.

Pete's voice follows soon after.

"Fuck off, Joe!"

Patrick waits a moment to see if he'll say anything else before answering him. "It's not Joe. It's me, Patrick."

His reserved tone contrasts greatly against Pete's shouting, and it strikes him just how different the two friends really are. He has no time to dwell on it, however, as a response echoes throughout the bus. 

"Stay the fuck away. I don't want to see you."

Patrick's entire body jerks to a stand-still. Andy doesn't hear a gasp or a loosed breath, but he knows the singer's mouth is an 'o' shape. He's in a similar situation himself. Time stands still, freezing around them like ice. A chill sweeps over the room, the heaters useless against its deadly cold. His limbs become stone. His heart becomes glass. The world threatens to shatter around them. Andy's sure that, at any second, everything will go to hell. The events of the last few days will repeat themselves; he can practically hear the screaming already. 

He can feel the shards of ice stab him when Patrick sobs softly.

"Alright, Pete," he whispers. "I'll leave."

He keeps his head down as he goes to move away, feet pointing in the direction of the couch.

Just as Patrick turns around, the door opens.

For one glorious, euphoric moment, Andy thinks that Pete's decided to stop being an ass. He's certainly matured in the past few years, so the idea doesn't seem completely ludicrous. 

His golden second is swallowed up, however, when the wood slides back into place.

A small bag stands at Patrick's feet. He stares at it, silent save for his breathing, before finally picking it up. His hands shake and he nearly drops it, but he soon holds it against his chest like a pillow. His breath catches and Andy thinks he hears another sob, and then Patrick turns around. 

His cheeks are soaked and he averts his gaze, staring intently at the floor as he sits down on the couch. The makeup he's wearing is smudged and runs down his face as though it were mud. He doesn't look up when Andy and Joe sit beside him, doesn't even acknowledge their presence. He hides his face in the back of his bag and wraps his arms around it, squeezing tightly. He looks like a child, and Andy wishes that he were only crying because of a scraped knee or a broken toy. That, he could fix. Broken friendships? Not so much. 

"Patrick?" He says, ducking his head as he tries to meet the man's gaze. 

"I-I," Patrick tries to answer, but he's cut off by a hiccup. His voice trembles and wavers like water as he speaks. "I'm fine. I'm okay."

"You're not," Joe objects. He slides closer, his hips against Patrick's, and wraps an arms around his shoulders in a half hug. "Stop pretending that you are. It's not good to bottle things up, Patrick. You know that."

Patrick's grip tightens on his bag. He slumps forward and sniffs, reaching up to wipe at his eyes as he nods quickly. Andy repeats Joe's actions and they both end up hanging over Patrick like a scarf. The smaller man seems to find comfort in the position, uncurling himself hesitantly. They both smile at him and he shifts in their hold, leaning into the touch.

"We'll be at the hotel soon," Andy tells him; to fill the silence and to comfort his friend. "I'll stay with Pete, and you and Joe could be in a room together. How's that sound?"

Patrick's eyes flick up to meet his briefly. "Th-that would work, I think."

"Cool." Andy decides that ignoring the fluttering in his chest is a sound decision. He shuffles closer to Patrick, sandwiching him between drummer and guitarist, and revels in the feeling of Patrick resting his head in the groove between his neck and shoulder. The singer sighs happily, a tiny smile breaking out on his face, and wipes his eyes one last time before going slack.

Andy beams down at him, stroking a hand along his arm absentmindedly. He stares at those cherry lips, dreaming about how they would feel against his own. Soft, most likely; they're plump and dark, and when Patrick's tongue flicks out to wet them Andy can't look away.

He's still staring when he sees a bruise on Patrick's cheek, poorly concealed behind the running makeup

Suddenly, Patrick's story about a dog dying doesn't seem so believable.  

Suddenly, Andy has a new mission.

He'll ignore the confession of last night for now.

Patrick's safety is more important. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the support guys! I really appreciate the comments and kudos.
> 
> Also fun fact; Gable means tax collector.  
> Another fun fact; guess who just dyed their hair turquoise!


	11. Your Head Can Be a Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are just conjugal visits.
> 
> TW yet again for references to abuse and abusive relationships.

"What the fuck happened to you?!"

The words are muffled by the damp pillow over his head, pressing into his ears as if it will help to block out any sound, but obviously it's not effective. He grits his teeth and slams his foot down in anger, the dull thud satisfying his fire just a smidge. It immediately ignites when his toe collides with the wall, and he cries out as it throbs. He decides that discovering the source of the shouting is more fulfilling than lying in bed with a stubbed toe and throws the pillow to the floor, landing on it seconds later. The ripple of pain from his ankles is grounding, in a weird sort of way so unlike the trivial injury in his foot. He wipes at his eyes and face before dragging himself to the door, taking care not to slip on the pillow. 

He slides the door open slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. It's not hard to be stealthy when the drummer is screaming louder than he thought possible. He looks around in confusion, taking in Patrick's wide eyes, Andy's furious expression and Joe's inability to act for the amount of shock he feels. Andy's grabbing Patrick by the collar, shaking him and shouting. 

He clears his throat.

"What the hell is going on?" He demands loudly, glaring at Andy.

"Pete, what happened to Patrick?!" The drummer shouts back, fists clenched. 

Pete's brows narrow in confusion. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"He's got a fucking bruise on his cheek, Pete! It looks like someone punched him!"

He immediately regrets leaving when Patrick had asked him to. There's only one person who could've done this.

Patrick tries to wiggle out of Andy's grip, hands pulling and tugging at his wrists, and when the drummer finally lets go he scrambles back. Joe places a gentle hand on his back, stroking idly. 

It's an oddly intimate moment. 

But Pete has to break it up.

"It was Gable, wasn't it?"

Patrick freezes. The hand leaves his back.

"He hurt you."

"No!" Patrick yells, shaking his head wildly. "I fell over! That's it! Gable didn't do anything, Pete, he just came to visit."

Pete frowns. "He talked about you like you were trash, and now you come back from seeing him and you've got a bruise. I don't think he was just visiting, Patrick."

"He was! He just wanted to-to see how I was doing a-and asked what the tour was like so far."

Pete walks forward, stepping around the table, and grabs Patrick's shoulders firmly. He reaches out to grip his chin, to look him in the eyes, but Patrick flinches away as though he's been burned. He raises his arms in front of him, as if to shield himself from a blow. He's shaking violently, chest heaving.

"Patrick," Pete murmurs his name, keeping his hands where Patrick can see them. "'Trick, please. Tell the truth."

"I-I am," he whispers. "I really am."

"No, you're not."

Pete slowly, carefully extends his hands. He cups Patrick's cherubic face and finally meets his eyes. They're dark and lined with silver, pupils blown.

"You don't have to hide."

Patrick breaks.

His face caves in as he lets out a strangled sound, and then he's bawling, tears sliding over Pete's knuckles and down his arms. His face is red and his eyes are squeezed shut, but the rivers are relentless as they cover his cheeks. His nose begins to run, and he sniffles amidst his gasps for breath. His breathing is erratic and uneven as he sucks in air like a vacuum. It doesn't seem to reach his lungs, doesn't seem to let him breathe, and soon he's hyperventilating right there in front of Pete. 

The older man panics. "Patrick?" He shouts frantically. "'Trick?!"

With a gut-wrenching sob, Patrick's eyes snap open. They're glassy and unfocused, darting around the room rapidly. His hands reach out, searching for something to cling to, something to ground himself with, so Pete reaches down and takes them in his own. He squeezes tightly, relieved when Patrick gives a tiny squeeze back. He kneels and catches Patrick's eyes.

"Hey, hey, don't worry," he says, voice barely above a whisper. He can feel Andy and Joe's stares burning into his back, but Patrick is the center of his universe right now. "It's okay, you're okay. No one's gonna hurt you."

The words seem to trigger something in Patrick.

He lunges forward and grabs Pete tightly, fisting his shirt and hiding his face in his chest. There's a shaky intake of breath, and then he's speaking so quickly it takes Pete a moment to understand. "It was him, it was him the entire time, it was all him, you're right, you were always right."

"Oh, God, 'Trick," he breathes. He holds Patrick close, grabbing his hair. He's about to say something else, but Patrick's not done yet.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he wails, words muffled by Pete's shirt. "He loved me, he said he loved me and then he hit me and I couldn't, I couldn't fight back and he hurts me so much, Pete, so much, _I'm so scared-"_

"Patrick," Pete cuts him off. He pulls back, forcing Patrick to look at him. The younger man is reluctant to let go, and even when he moves his face away he keeps his hands on Pete's back. "Listen to me, okay? I really need you to hear what I'm going to say."

Patrick nods. 

"It's not your fault. None of this was ever your fault. You have to know that, 'Trick," he swipes at the tears with his thumb. "He doesn't deserve you. None of us deserve you. You're the sun and we're all just the planets, spinning around you." He sighs shakily. "He doesn't love you, Patrick. When people are in love, they take care of each other, they help each other, they support each other. He hurt you. That's not love."

"I know," Patrick chokes out. "It never was."

"Yeah." Pete smiles sadly. "You're amazing, Patrick. You deserve the world. If Gable can't see that, he must be blind."

He's hoping to elicit a turn of the lips, a twinkle from the eyes.

He gets a sound of suffering instead. 

"He made me stay quiet," Patrick says. "He said that if anyone ever found out, he'd hurt me so much more. He'd say that no one would care, they wouldn't even notice I was gone. He convinced me to hate myself."

At that, Pete's own eyes well up and overflow. He hiccups and embraces Patrick again. "He's wrong, Patrick, he's so wrong. That's _bullshit._ Please, _please_ tell me you didn't believe him, **_please."_**

Patrick hesitates before answering. "I-I did."

Andy gasps behind him, and Pete suddenly remembers that the other two members of the band are here. They've heard everything Patrick's said, heard him confess his pain. They know, now, who hurt their friend. They know he's an abuser, they know he's dangerous, and they know his name.

That's hardly a bad thing.

After all, it means there's more people to kick Gable's ass when the time comes.

"You need to break up with him," Joe says sternly. "He's toxic."

Patrick shakes his head weakly. "I can't. He'd... he'd kill me."

A stab of fear slices through Pete's chest. Patrick, _his_ Patrick, the Patrick he's seen grow up, the Patrick whose kept him on his feet for years, is being hurt by the one he calls boyfriend, and he doesn't want to break up. "Call the cops, then," he urges. "You can't let this go on."

"He's a lawyer, Pete. It wouldn't help."

"God dammit," Andy curses. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. "Is there anything else we can do?"

Patrick doesn't respond for so long that Pete's afraid he's fallen asleep. When he does, his voice wavers and cracks. "S-stay with me," he begs. "Please. He only hurts me when we're alone, so, so if you stay, m-maybe he won't-he wouldn't- you know."

They all agree immediately. Agreements are declared and dips of the chins are made. 

Pete has one last thing to say.

"I'm sorry I got pissed earlier. It's just... I don't know. He said some shitty stuff and then acted like I was the villain and I guess I didn't know how to react. I shouldn't have yelled at you, 'Trick. 'M sorry."

Patrick gives him a small smile that makes his whole body light up. "It's alright, Pete. I forgive you."

The singer's cheeks flush and he looks away as he finishes.

"Thank you. For everything."


	12. Singing I Am Your Worst, I Am Your Worst Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm just numb.
> 
> TW for gore, character death, graphic depictions of violence and a lot of blood. No one's actually injured or dying, don't worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the longest chapter so far! Also much usage of the word 'just.'  
> And has anyone else read 'Simon VS The Homosapiens Agenda?' Because it's gold.

He's done it.

He's confessed everything. 

All of the abuse, all of the hurt and the hate and screams of _you're nothing, you won't ever be anything, **you're better off dead.**_ They all know now; Pete, Joe, Andy. They know he's been hurt, know he's been hurting, and it's just so strange he can't bring himself to believe it's actually real. They all vow to never let Gable get any closer than ten feet to him ever again, and promise to search the crowd for the rich bastard and kick him out before he sneaks backstage. 

He's safe.

He's actually safe.

And he is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% certain that Gable will kill him the next time they meet. Literally.

Maybe he'll use a gun, make it quick and painless. But that's not like him. He would never be so kind to Patrick. 

If he plans to have blood on his hands, he's going to put it there with style. He'll use a knife, and he'll use it like a paint brush. He'll lacerate pale skin and stain it red along with his own teeth as he drags his tongue along the cold metal. He'll create a patchwork of slices and gashes, let them bleed like water from a tap. Maybe he'll treat Patrick's blood like paint; use it to write words on his chest and draw a smile over the mouth he's kissed too violently to be safe. He'll tease the blade along his neck, feel the pounding pulse and the fluttering throat. He'll draw it beneath his eyes, cut two identical lines just below each one to make it seem like he's crying red while he's murdered. 

He wonders if his throat would be slit or stabbed.

Maybe, they'd find a body without a head. 

Maybe they wouldn't find a body at all, just little pieces of meat.

He should stop thinking about this.

He can't help but marvel at how believable it all is. Gable killing him. Gable maiming him. Gable drinking up his blood like he's one of those creatures with sharp fangs and pale skin. He always did hate garlic. 

He's snapped from his thoughts by a loud shout of, "We're here, get your stuff!"

Oh, right. It's a hotel night. 

He thinks back to what Andy had said earlier, before he'd confessed. He could stay with Joe, and until now he had planned to, but Pete's been giving him concerned looks all night and he knows that they won't go away on their own. The bassist needs assurance just as much as the rest of them. Sure, Andy and Joe have been hovering over him and staring at him when they think he's not looking, but Pete hasn't let go yet. He refuses to leave Patrick's side for even a second, and as they retrieve their bags and suitcases from the bunks he stays as close as he can without falling over.

They get off the bus and Joe checks them in. They've got two rooms, and if the advertising on the website is correct, each one has two beds. They're on the same floor, so they all pile into the elevator together and stand in silence as the red number on the door slowly climbs up to fifteen.

"So," Pete says. "Who's staying with who?"

Patrick's stomach drops back to the lobby when everyone turns to look at him. He flushes and averts his eyes, grip tightening on the straps of his backpack. "I don't mind," he says, hoping it sounds casual and hides his budding nervousness. "I'll stay with anyone."

"Same here," Joe pitches in from behind him. "How about you guys? You wanna room with anyone in particular?"

"I'll go with you," Andy answers, then adds, "If that's okay."

Patrick nods and Pete shrugs nonchalantly, a ghost of a smile on his face. "It's cool." He looks at Patrick. "Is that okay with you, Lunchbox?"

Patrick's cheeks heat up at the nickname, and he nods again, his movements jerky.

A bell sounds and the doors swing open, revealing a bland hallway adorned with black doors. They search for the numbers 78 and 80, and play a game of Rock Paper Scissors to decide who gets which when they reach them. Pete scans the card and throws the door open, grinning wildly as he flicks on the lights. He throws his bags carelessly on the table and stops short. His attention is on something in the center of their room, and it's making his shoulders shake with laughter. Patrick investigates, and the grip on his suitcase goes slack when he sees just what Pete finds so funny.

Apparently, the advertising on the hotel's website was incorrect. 

There's only one bed.

It's queen sized, covered with a black and gold quilt, mocking them cruelly. Its white sheets call to them, daring them to sit down, daring them to actually share a bed and sleep side by side. He can hardly believe his eyes. _How can Pete find this funny?!_

"Looks like we're sleeping together tonight, 'Trick," Pete intones beside him. 

Patrick scowls at him. "Don't say it like that, asshole." He glances at the bed one last time, heat burning in his gaze, before looking at Pete. "M-maybe we don't have to share it. I could, like, sleep on the floor or something."

Pete frowns. "Nope, not happening." He turns so that they're facing each other. "You are not sleeping on a floor, Patrick. You're going to get some rest, and you're going to get that rest right here on this bed."

"Pete, I'll be fine-"

"I'm gonna stop you there," Pete says sharply, before his face softens along with his voice. "Patrick, stop acting like everyone is better than you. You deserve just as much as everyone else."

Patrick's about to retort, but Pete cuts him off. "Don't argue with me on this one. You can't convince me otherwise."

 _They're all so similar,_ he thinks. Pete, Joe, Andy. They all want the best for him, and he keeps pushing them away. 

He decides that, if he wants arguments like these to stop, he should just agree with whoever he's talking to, so he nods and shuffles to the bathroom without a word. He puts his bags in the hallway and grabs some clean clothes, turning on the lights. He tells Pete he's taking a shower and strips, refusing to look at the mirror as he twists the tap. Cold water sprays him and he flinches back, holding his hand beneath the water as it slowly gets warmer. When it's finally hot, he steps inside, closing the curtain and cutting off the outside world with it. 

He almost sighs with relief when his skin is warmed; it's been days since he's showered. While Pete uses baby wipes to clean up, he prefers to _actually_ bathe. He reaches for the small tube of shampoo the hotel staff have gifted them with, lathering his hair and rinsing it away. He scrubs at his arms with the bar of soap and makes sure he doesn't miss an inch of his body. Just to be certain, he covers every limb twice. 

He can't help but glance down at his stomach. When he does, he sees splotches of sickening yellow where there should only be porcelain skin. Some of them are turning purple. He presses two fingers to the largest one in his stomach, hissing and drawing it back seconds later. He's learned that the shoes Gable wears are not only large, but also steel-capped. They almost broke his fingers once, the bone groaning beneath them, but Patrick had gasped out something about not being able to play or perform, so they'd remained intact. He'd cried that night, when he was certain he was alone. 

 _Never again,_ he reminds himself. _That'll never happen again. You're safe now. You're safe._

He still doesn't believe it. Not when he stops the water, not when he steps out and dries off, not when he stands before the full body mirror and stares at the marks on his skin. One is the same size as Gable's boot. 

Grimacing, he turns to take in the rest of his body. There's so much of him, too much. He feels as though he's weighted to earth, and it's because of the extra fat clinging stubbornly to his stomach and thighs. He thought he'd lost it, thought he'd finally liked what he saw in the mirror, and for a while he had almost been happy with himself. 

But he could never be happy without his band. He'd been thin and lean without them, and now that they've reunited he may be happier, but the number on the scale has increased drastically. He certainly doesn't want to revisit his chaotic mindset from the hiatus, though. 

He just wished he wasn't this... hideous. 

As he pulls on his boxers, Patrick can't help but cringe at the fold of skin that hangs out over them. He pinches it softly; it's too malleable and squishy between his fingers. _Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting._ _How could anyone love this?_ He doesn't understand Pete, Joe or Andy when they pat him on the back, when they tell him he sung well or he looks nice or, on rare occasions, that he's cute.

He tries to savor those moments, even if he doesn't believe the words.

"Patrick?" Pete calls out, snapping him back to reality. "You okay? You've been in there for a while."

"I'm fine!" He shouts back, tugging on his sweatpants. He tries his hardest to ignore the way they rub against his thighs, the way that they can't contain everything. He pulls his shirt down and revels in the way it hides his middle just a bit, just enough. 

Patrick hangs his towel on the rack and exits the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a click. He finds Pete lying on they bed, phone in hand, and his cheeks warms at the reminder that they'll be between the same sheets soon. Pete smiles at him, oblivious to his embarrassment, and throws his phone on the bed as he stands.

"I'm taking a shower too," he states, grabbing some clothes from his suitcase. "I'll join you in a bit."

Patrick shuffles his feet and gulps, nodding quickly. "S-sure."

Pete grins, white teeth shining in the bright lights, and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of water running fills the hotel room moments later, and Patrick flops back onto the bed, exhaustion sweeping over him like a wave. His eyelids are suddenly leaden, along with the rest of his body, and he lets them slip shut. The world drifts away as he does, all sound and sight disappearing. 

He wishes he could do this whenever he wanted; escape from reality and forget about everything. It's only a temporary solution, of course, but it helps when he needs to cool down. It's harmless, too; better than drugs or alcohol. He could do this forever, just lie down and relax. 

He wonders what it would be like with someone next to him again. 

There had been girls in high school he'd dated. He's surely forgotten their names by now; none of them were very extraordinary and, by extension, worthy of remembrance. Only one or two had actually stayed for longer than two months. They'd had moments like these, we're they'd lay down and snuggle into each other and just breathe. It had been like that with Elisa, too, but she'd left him during the hiatus. She'd complained about his drinking, had asked for him to stop an uncountable amount of times, and when he hadn't, she'd packed her bags and left. The house had never felt the same; it was too big, too empty. Sometimes, he'd peer around a corner and expect Elisa to be there, waiting.

He's learned to stop doing that.

Patrick wonders what the other members of the band would be like in a relationship. Andy's so gentle, Joe's so laidback, Pete's so outgoing. He can picture Andy hugging him and leaving little kisses on his cheeks and the corners of his mouth, linking their pinkies together and maybe placing a gentle hand on his knee. He thinks Joe would give him pecks on the forehead and on the top of his hand, leaning against him and dropping his head on Patrick's shoulder. Pete would probably gift him with sloppy, perfect kisses on his lips, wrap an arm around his shoulders, curl against him like a stuffed animal.

Perhaps, he could have all three, if he were brave enough.

But then Pete exits the bathroom with a cloud of steam trailing behind him and jumps onto the bed, now clothed in his loose pajamas and a hoodie, and Patrick knows that even if he had the courage, even if he were the most fearless man alive, he could never confess, because it would be pointless. His feelings could never be reciprocated. That's just not possible.

He tries to close his eyes again, to continue his pleasantly unrealistic daydream, when Pete rolls on top of him.

"What the hell, Pete?" He shouts, flailing wildly as he attempts to knock the bassist off.

Pete laughs like the asshole that he is, draping himself over Patrick like an octopus. "I'm your new blanket now, 'Trick." At Patrick's scornful face, he grins. "Sorry, I don't make the rules. That's just how it is."

"Get off! You're squishing me!"

"No way." Pete buries his face in Patrick's chest in retaliation and puts a firm hold on his shoulders, preventing him from moving. "This hotel room is cold as balls, and you're super fucking warm. I'm not moving."

Patrick blushes and tries yet again to escape from Pete's hold, but the older man is stuck to him like glue. He squirms a bit more before succumbing to his fate with a sigh. He has to admit, Pete is rather warm on top of him, and if he tries hard enough, he can almost imagine this situation is romantic. If Patrick confessed, maybe he'd get this everyday; Pete on top of him, laughing and smiling, and him on the bed with a grin on his face. It seems so cliché, so ridiculously romantic, and he loves every bit of it.

Pete rolls off of him and disappointment sinks into his chest. 

It was nice while it lasted, at least. 

"We should get some sleep," Pete says with a yawn, pulling away the covers.

Patrick's eyes widen. "Sleep?" He asks, a smile splitting across his face. "You, Pete Wentz, the infamous insomniac, wanting to sleep?"

Pete chuckles. "Oh, shush." He slides beneath the sheets and flops down onto the mattress, his pillow fluffing up beneath his head.

Patrick joins him soon after, cheeks red with embarrassment. He checks that his glasses are on the nightstand before turning off the lights, plunging their room into near darkness. The only light comes from the balcony, and he notices that Pete's left the sliding door open. No wonder it's so cold. Although, it's warmer under the blankets. Pete gets up to close the door, sliding across the curtains and blocking out the shine of the streetlamps. When he slides back in next to him, it's as though a heater's suddenly been placed beneath the blankets with them.

It takes Patrick's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and when they do he sees Pete smiling at him. Not his usual dopey smile; this one's smaller, barely there, but it looks oh so genuine. For a moment, Patrick forgets how to breathe. He stares at those lips and imagines, for maybe the fifth time that day, what kissing Pete would be like. Maybe he tastes like chocolate or candy. Patrick thinks he would taste sweet; it just seems so fitting.

"Night, Patrick," Pete murmurs, dark eyes staring into his baby blues.

"Good night, Pete," Patrick whispers back and waits for Pete to turn around.

He doesn't. Instead, he simply closes his eyes and drifts off, right next to Patrick. It's exactly like the old days, when he would crawl into Patrick's bunk and snuggle up next to him, but it's different, somehow. More intimate. 

And maybe it's sleep-deprivation, maybe it's insanity, maybe it's the result of bottled up feelings finally breaking free, but Patrick finds himself moving closer.

He's about to slip away when he feels a hand on his back, and then he's being pulled closer and ensnared by warmth. He burrows into it with a happy little sigh, and for once, he doesn't care about consequences. He's letting himself have this. A selfish little part of him, a part he keeps locked up most of the time, breaks free from its shackles and says that he deserves this. 

He falls asleep just as a pair of dry, cracked lips press against his forehead.

///

_Dark._

_It's so dark._

_He can't see anything._

_Where's Pete? Where's Joe? Where's Andy?_

_Where is he?_

_"Hello there, Patrick."_

_He recognizes that voice._

_And he recognizes the face that forces its way into his face a second later. Green eyes scan over him, lingering on his hips, and a pink tongue darts out to swipe over plush lips. He feels sick._

_Why is he here? Wasn't he with Pete just a moment ago, asleep in a hotel in Washington State?_

_"Aren't you going to greet your boyfriend, dear?"_

_He begins to shake. That tone is dangerous; that tone warrants pain and bruises and scares. That tone ensures a broken bone or two. That tone promises a painful punishment._

_But Gable steps away._

_And Patrick realizes they aren't alone._

_Pete kneels about a meter or two away. A red blindfold is draped over his eyes and his hands are bound infront of him with handcuffs. He doesn't appear to be listening, motionless and quiet. So unlike Pete._

_"I think a punishment is in order. What do you think, Patrick?"_

_It hits him, then._

_He's not the one being beaten or bruised._

_Pete is._

_"No!" He shouts. "No, don't hurt him! Please!"_

_His words fall on deaf ears._

_Gable saunters over to Pete and squats down next to him. Pete doesn't even look up. Gable grins wickedly and his eyes flick over to Patrick._

_"What's your take on Russian Roulette, Patrick?"_

_Panic hits him, cold and hard, in the gut. His stomach churns and his hands shake._

_"Do it to me! Hurt me instead! Gable, please!"_

_The green-eyed beast laughs, a sharp, harsh sound. It grates on Patrick's ears painfully, but it's not as painful as the sight of Pete, his best friend, bound and blinded in front of him. He tries desperately to move, thrashes about in the invisible grip he's trapped in, but he can't break free. Something's holding him in place, keeping him from Pete._

_Gable draws a gun._

_Patrick screams._

_"STOP! GABLE, STOP IT NOW!"_

_There's a familiar prickle in his eyes, and his breathing is ragged and clipped, and if he doesn't do something right now Pete will be gone. That can't ever happen. They've gone through too much to lose each other now._

_"SHOOT ME! KILL ME INSTEAD! NOT HIM, PLEASE NOT HIM!"_

_Gable presses the revolver against Pete's temple slowly, making a show of it. He takes extra care to show off the chambers, making sure Patrick knows the gravity of the situation._

_Patrick knows all too well._

_There are tears flying down his face and he can barely breathe, but he manages to sob out one final plea._

_Gable doesn't listen._

_He pulls the trigger. Patrick's heart stops._

_Time stops and starts again._

_Pete is still there. He's still alive._

_And then there's another click, another empty chamber, and for a second Patrick thinks that maybe this game of Russian Roulette is just a joke, that they'll just laugh it off and go home._

_Another click._

_Patrick's heart slows to a stop._

_One more._

_There's only two chambers left._

_"GABLE!"_

_He can't think of anything else to say. He's not sure why he's even trying. Gable won't listen. He never has. He's the center of his own universe, the star of his own show, and everyone else is merely a pawn in his game._

_Click._

_Pete's alive._

_But if Gable isn't lying, he won't be for much longer._

_Patrick sobs and fights against his bonds with renewed vigor, kicking and screaming. He screams Gable's name, screams Pete's name, screams futile pleas for mercy._

_He almost misses Pete's scratchy whisper._

_Almost, but not quite._

_"Your fault."  
_

_The final chamber isn't empty._

_There's an earsplitting sound, he's sure, but he can't hear it over his own cries._

_Pete is gone._

_Pete has been taken from him. He's been ripped from him by cruel hands and crueler forces. He's left him all alone in the world. Pete has always been home, has always been his anchor. Never again will he be home, never again will he be grounded. He will never feel love, never give love, because what is it worth if Pete isn't there? What is he to do if Pete isn't there?  
_

_Pete is dead._

_He never even got to say goodbye._

_Pete is gone._

_And he'll never come back._

_It's all_

_his_

**_fault._ **

 

 

 


	13. Call Me Mr. Benzedrine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My Benzedrine. 
> 
> TW for panic attacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a bunch for your support, guys! I get so bubbly and giggly when I see a new comment in my inbox, and I'm always amazed when I receive a bookmark. I also never expect the number of kudos on this work to go up, so when it does I'm super excited. Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> (Ok so that sounds like an ending letter or something but I assure you that it's not).

Pete can't believe he's here.

He's lying in bed with the only person he's ever truly loved curled against him, asleep and calm. It might not be romantic, he might not be able to smack a kiss on those plump lips, but Patrick trusts him enough to sleep in the same bed, and that thought makes him glow. He can't help but smile at the singer's relaxed expression; he's made sure to tell Patrick plenty of times how adorable he is when he sleeps. All the stress is gone from his face, replaced by serenity. 

He's seen Patrick sleeping so many times. In the old days, when he would climb into the younger man's bed because of insomnia or bad dreams, he'd relish in seeing the fallen features of his friend's face. He would sometimes stroke his cheeks, and occasionally, when he'd triple checked that Patrick was asleep, he'd plant a small kiss on his forehead. He'd been reckless this time; he wasn't entirely sure if Patrick was still conscious or not. His breaths had evened out and the crease of his brow had disappeared soon after, so Pete had tried to convince himself that Patrick hadn't felt a thing. A small part of him hopes that when he wakes, he'll receive a similar treatment. He calls that part of him Fantasy, because none of the things it dreams up will ever become reality. 

Fantasy had thought that, maybe, on that chaotic night, Pete would have a chance. Of course, the confession had also been directed at Joe and Andy, but it was also for him. He had felt so giddy, so childish, and then Fantasy had been crushed the next day. 

He decides that Fantasy is an idiot and deserves to be destroyed, but, no matter what happens, it always stays with him. 

He's separated from Fantasy by a sniff beside him, and he turns to the person he's sharing this bed with. The one who's broken and rebuilt his heart so many times, the one whose voice could move mountains and eyes could hold stars, the one who owns his heart. 

God, he's hopeless. 

He turns on the light and tries to discover the source of the noise.

Patrick's brows knot together, a small sound of distress falling from his lips, and Pete goes from lovesick to worried so quickly he surprises himself. He strokes his knuckles down the side of the younger man's cheek, hoping to return his expression to normal, but his actions don't receive a response. He shifts as close as he can without smothering him and places a cautious hand on his shoulder. 

"Patrick?" He whispers into the night, shaking his friend carefully. 

Patrick doesn't wake up. His face falls further into dismay and his deep breaths turn into shallow gasps of air. A small cry escapes him, and Pete feels his heart begin to hammer in his chest. He shakes Patrick harder, whispering his name as loudly as he can, because it's three in the morning and the only person he should be waking up is the one beside him. 

"Come on, 'Trick," he pleads urgently, pinching Patrick's cheeks. He's always been a light sleeper, and Pete thinks it'll work, but Patrick only lets out a small groan. "Wake up, dammit!" 

Patrick sucks in a sharp gasp suddenly, and then he begins to squirm. 

Pete manages to maneuver himself to the side just as the singer's foot lashes out to kick him in the stomach. He holds his arms infront of him and blocks Patrick's next blow, reminding himself that he's asleep, he's having a nightmare, and if he were awake he would never do this. Patrick thrashes about violently, letting out little whines of distress, and Pete throws away the covers and jumps out of bed to avoid being hit. He runs around the side of the bed and leans over Patrick, slapping his hands down on his chest in an effort to hold him down. He winces when the redhead swings his fist out and jabs him in the gut.

Pete's about to yell at him to wake up when he's cut off by a guttural cry.

"NO!" Patrick writhes beneath him, terror crossing his face. "STOP! STOP IT!"

"Patrick!" Pete yells back, blinded by panic. "Wake up!"

With a scream that promises to haunt Pete's dreams for the rest of his life, Patrick wakes and springs up, nearly knocking Pete over.

For a second, Pete's relieved. He's had nightmares himself, and he usually calms down pretty quick. He's hardly ever seen Patrick in his shoes, but he's almost certain that he'll be the same. 

He's wrong. Deathly wrong.

A sob rips through the singer's body, followed by another seconds later, and soon he's bawling, tears streaming from his wild eyes. The orbs of blue-green are wide open and haunted. His fringe sticks to his forehead with sweat, and he sucks in as much air as he can in between hiccups. It doesn't seem to work; he's trying harder and harder, gasping desperately, and he's getting more frantic. He tugs on his hair harshly, as if to ground himself, but judging by the frantic sobs and gasps, it too has failed. He shakes so violently Pete wouldn't be surprised if the bed started shaking with him. 

The traumatized look in Patrick's eyes scares Pete more than he'd be willing to admit, and he immediately feels the urge to banish it from the riptide pools.

"'Trick?" He whispers gently, not daring to move. "Hey, it's me. It's Pete."

That gets quite a reaction

One second, Patrick's frozen on the bed, staring at Pete with eyes that take up a good half of his face.

The next, he's practically suffocating Pete, clawing at his back and dampening his shirt with tears. He clings for dear life, holding him as though he'll fade into thin air if he lets go. Muffled whimpers and gasps fill the hotel room, a drastic change to the white noise of passing cars and honking horns from before. He bleeds the fear away, and as it falls from his eyes he buries his face in Pete's hoodie, as if to hide himself. He grabs a fistful of the fabric and holds it so tightly his knuckles go white.

Pete slowly wraps his arms around Patrick and pulls him closer, rubbing circles on his back and murmuring calming things in his ear. "I've got you," he whispers. "You're safe. You're here with me, in a hotel in Washington, and I'm not going anywhere. We're touring right now, remember? Me, You, Joe and Andy. Fall Out Boy."

"Y-you were gone," Patrick hiccups, voice trembling. "You left me, he took you away, I-I don't... I can't-"

"No, no, no, Patrick, hey." Pete pulls back, despite Patrick's attempts to tug him closer, and holds the singer's gaze. "I'm right here, okay? It was just a dream. Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

His words fly right over his friend's head. Patrick's chest heaves erratically, and he begins to wheeze. The stricken look on his face intensifies, and his eyes plead for salvation. Air doesn't seem to be reaching his lungs. He coughs, the action rattling his frame, and gasps like he's dying.

It hits Pete, then, what's going on. 

Patrick's having a panic attack. 

Pete's had enough of them in the past; he's been in Patrick's position so many times. He knows what it's like when your oxygen is sucked away, he knows how it feels to shake and sob and try so desperately to breathe it hurts. He's cried a sea of tears, has screamed loud enough to shatter glass, has poured out a gym's worth of sweat, but he always thought he was the only one. Clearly not. 

"'Trick, hey, look at me," he says urgently, ducking as he tries to catch the Patrick's gaze. "Just breathe, okay? Breathe."

Patrick wildly whips his head back and forth, a frenzied look on his face. "I-I can't, I can't, fuck, oh god."

"Yes you can." Pete cups his face and holds him still. "Look at me, and breathe."

Patrick sobs, squeezing his eyes shut. He grabs Pete's wrists and holds on firmly. "I can't."

"I'll help you, then."

Pete pitches forward and embraces Patrick again, heart fluttering when the singer returns it immediately. He strokes his back, nuzzling his nose against his neck, and gently rocks them back and forth. Patrick's trembling like a leaf in his hold, and it sounds like he still can't breathe. It hurts more than when he kicked Pete in the gut a few days ago, and that could easily have broken his ribs if he'd aimed a bit higher. 

"Listen to me, 'Trick," he murmurs softly. "Let me know you're listening. Are you?"

Patrick nods against him with a whimper.

"Do you know where you are?"

"A-a hotel."

"In what state?"

"Washington."

"Good." Pete strokes a hand through the singer's hair, running his fingers through the strawberry strands. He slowly comes up with another question, and although it's ridiculous, he thinks it'll help. "What's my name?"

"Pete," Patrick whispers, shuddering. "Your name is Pete."

"And what's yours?"

"P-Patrick."

"That's it. The other two guys in our band; what are their names?"

"Andy, and Joe."

Patrick's not wheezing anymore, which Pete takes as a sign that he's doing the right thing. There's less frantic sobbing, too, replaced by hiccups and hitches of breath. _Just a few more questions,_ he tells himself, _just a few more and he'll be okay._

"What's the name of our band?" Such an obscure question, but his mind is muddled and it's three in the morning and honestly it's the least of his concerns right now.

"Fall Out Boy," Patrick answers with a questioning tone. Pete's about to ask something else when Patrick cuts him off. "Wait, w-why are you asking me these questions? Don't you know these things already?"

Pete chuckles, a relieved grin on his face. "Yeah, I do. Just wanted to make sure you did, too."

"Of course I do," Patrick states flatly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, but see how you're not panicking anymore?" Patrick doesn't even appear to be crying. "It's called grounding. Did it work?"

Patrick's quiet for a moment. "It did," he answers after a long silence. "Thank you. And... sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" If Patrick's about to go on a self-deprecating rant he swears to God-

"I-I woke you up and freaked out over some stupid nightmare. I freaked out over nothing, and I ruined your shirt."

"I wasn't asleep in the first place, 'Trick, and even if I was I wouldn't have cared." Pete pushes on his shoulders and smiles. "I never really liked this shirt anyways." He hopes a bit of the love he's feeling will shine through his eyes so that Patrick can see it. "You don't have to apologize. Nightmares fucking suck like that, dude, but it's not your fault."

Patrick smiles back weakly, and even though his nose is runny and his eyes are red and swollen, he's the most beautiful thing Pete's ever seen. "Okay, Pete."

Pete grins and hugs Patrick one last time. "You wanna talk about it?"

"No, thanks. It was, um, it was pretty bad."

"Alright, that's fine," he answers, a bit of worry rising in his chest. "Do you need anything?"

Patrick shifts a bit in his hold. "Water, please," he mumbles. "And maybe some tissues."

"Got it."

Pete removes himself from the hug and walks away from the bed, Patrick reluctantly letting him go. His knees are stiff and his legs ache, but it's worth it. Patrick's okay, and that's all that matters. He opens the mini-fridge and retrieves a cold bottle of water, and on his way back over he grabs the tissue box. He settles down next to Patrick on the bed and hands him the items, which he takes gratefully. He gulps down the water and blows his nose, throwing the tissue over their heads and sending it sailing into the bin. Pete whistles, impressed, and Patrick giggles softly. He puts the water and the box of tissues on the nightstand beside him and turns to Pete. 

"So, uh, thanks again," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. Pete knows that he's probably blushing, although he can't really tell with how dark it is. 

"Of course, Patrick. Anytime." Pete yawns loudly, crashing onto the mattress. "Do you think you'll be able to go back to sleep?"

Patrick frowns. "M-maybe." He fiddles with his fingers, and continues in a voice so quiet Pete finds himself shuffling closer just to hear him. "If... if you were there, then, then I'd probably be okay."

Pete shows his teeth in a wide grin and chuckles. "You got it, 'Trick. I'll be your teddy bear."

"Shut up, asshole," Patrick scorns, smacking his arm playfully. 

Pete laughs and moves to Patrick's side, sliding beneath the blankets and almost sighing at how warm he suddenly is. He's left some body heat on the mattress, it seems. Patrick wipes at his cheeks and joins him a second later, pointedly looking anywhere but at Pete. The bassist manages to catch a glimpse of his cherry cheeks before the light is switched off and they're surrounded by darkness. He sighs and nuzzles into his pillow. 

"Night, Patrick," he says in the general direction of his friend. 

"Sleep well, Pete," comes his reply.

Pete smiles affectionately, even though Patrick can't see it. "I should be the one telling you that."

Patrick moves a bit closer. "Shush." 

"I mean it, though," Pete says, suddenly serious. "Remember, I'll be here to chase those bastard demons away."

He's expecting a giggle or a laugh, but instead he gets a sincere, "thank you."

Pete's smile falls. "You don't have to thank me, you know. I'm happy doing this for you."

Patrick's about to thank him once more, but stops himself in the nick of time. "I really do appreciate it, Pete."

Rather than respond verbally, Pete opens his arms and shifts forward. He knows it's just light enough for Patrick to see his silhouette and is soon enveloped in smothering, pleasant heat. Patrick holds him close, and Pete pulls him closer. Their breaths mingle and Pete's intrusive thoughts suddenly scream at him to _kiss, kiss, kiss._ He stops himself an inch in front of Patrick's face, wanting to show him love more than he's ever wanted anything else, and reminds himself that unless Patrick consents, he's doing the wrong thing. 

"Will you be okay?" He asks, trying to fill the now awkward silence between them.

"I will be, now."

At that, Pete can't help but fall further into his pit of unrequited love.

 


	14. But You'll Be Faded Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can make your heart slow (and beat out of your chest).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sara Farizan is an amazing author and I love her so much even though 'If You Could Be Mine' made me screech like a fucking demon when I was finished. I'm still picking up the pieces of my shattered heart. Sahar and Parveen are awesome characters and I love them so much. Ali's kind of a bitch but he has his good qualities. Sorry just rambling lol.
> 
> Also sorry this chapter is so short! I got kind of stuck when writing this and I didn't know how to make it progress farther so uh here. I'm mostly unstuck now though. Sorry!

They eat pancakes in a booth at IHOP the next day, and Joe can't help but notice that Pete and Patrick are astonishingly quiet. They're sharing knowing glances and having wordless conversations, speaking with their eyes, and Joe is a bit jealous, but he's mostly confused. They weren't like this last night. What had happened in that hotel room, he wonders. A spike of jealousy stabs him at the thought of Pete finally confessing, and Patrick returning his feelings, and them kissing and being together and-and- oh god, he should focus on eating his pancake instead of glaring at the two of them. 

"So, how'd you guys sleep last night?" Andy asks, a suspicious glint in his eyes. Joe swears he sees envy swimming there as well, and while it's comforting to know he's not alone, it also means that Andy might feel things for Patrick, too. His mood is soiled further.

"Pretty well," Pete answers, although he flicks his gaze to Patrick with something akin to concern on his face. Patrick blushes and ducks his head, focusing intently on the torn leather seat next to him.

Joe's eyes narrow. "Did something happen?" He asks, cringing internally at how cold his voice sounds. 

Patrick gingerly looks up. "Um, I uh, I kinda had a nightmare." When he sees that Andy and Joe are about to turn into mother hens and make a scene, he waves his hands infront of him frantically. "I'm fine! Really! It's all good now, I hardly even remember it."

"You sure?" Joe presses.

Patrick nods. "I'm sure."

With that, they return the their pancakes. Joe's not entirely satisfied with Patrick's answer, but he knows that the singer doesn't like to worry anyone and gets annoyed when people fuss over him, so he lets it go. He might bring it up another time. 

When they're finished, they pile onto the bus and prepare themselves for the long drive to their next show. They're playing a venue in Oregon tonight, and when they cross over the state border it'll take about three or four hours to get there. They all undergo their own activities in the lounge; Pete's snickering about something on Twitter, Patrick's messing around with Garageband, Andy's reading and Joe's blasting music through his headphones. He's not really focusing on the melodies or the scenery passing by. He's trapped in his own head, mind buzzing with thoughts.

Who the hell is Gable? Why didn't Patrick tell them he had a boyfriend, or that his boyfriend was hurting him? And, most importantly, why hadn't they broken up yet? He should just ask instead of jumping to conclusions, should get an actual answer, but he's afraid of setting Patrick off. He's read about people who have survived abuse, he knows that it's a long road of recovery, and the very thought of Patrick being triggered because of him is sickening. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Patrick frown, and he pauses his music. "What's up, dude?" He asks, removing his earbuds and placing them in his lap.

"It-uh, it's nothing," he says, shaking his head. He glares at his phone in distaste. 

"It doesn't seem like nothing." Pete and Andy's eyes catch Joe's as he voices his concern, and then they shift to Patrick, awaiting a response

Patrick shrinks under everyone's gaze, pulling his hat down to cover his eyes. "Um, s-someone's just been... bothering me, I guess."

"Who is it?" Pete asks immediately, eyebrows raised.

Patrick twiddles his thumbs and bounces his leg nervously. He sighs before answering. "Gable."

"What?!" Patrick jumps at their simultaneous shouting. 

"It's not... it's not really bad stuff," he murmurs, staring at his phone. "Just... he's being really possessive."

"Fuck him, then," Pete huffs, crossing his arms. "I fucking hate that guy, he's such an ass."

"You need to break up with him, Patrick," Andy presses, placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "He hurt you."

Patrick nods. "I know, I know." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I... I'm just... scared of what he would do, I guess. If I broke up with him."

"What do you mean?" Joe asks before he can stop himself. He's not quite sure he wants to know the answer.

Patrick swallows thickly. "He's, uh, he's done some pretty... extreme stuff, before." His voice trembles and threatens to break as he continues. "H-he's, like, a black belt in karate, and he's got all these body guards and shit, and this huge collection of guns and knives and-" he sighs deeply, cutting himself off and closing his eyes. "It's terrifying."

Joe can feel a familiar prickle behind his eyes. He blinks rapidly and forces it away. He doesn't have a face for a name, but he knows that the minute he sees Gable, the bastard's getting his lights punched out. Picturing Patrick being yelled at is one thing, but the idea of him being hit and beaten, of being _killed_... he gulps and fights against the wobble in his jaw.

Pete says softly, "You could do it over the phone. So that, y'know, he can't actually do anything to you."

Patrick sighs again. "Th-that could work, but he's... he's bought tickets to a bunch of our shows, and he could sneak backstage easily, even with you guys watching, and h-he could find out where we are and..." He buries his face in his hands. "God, what have I gotten myself into?"

"This isn't your fault," Joe says immediately. "None of this is your fault, not a bit of it. Don't you dare think otherwise."

"But it literally is," Patrick snaps, laughing humorlessly. "I could have just ignored him the first time we met, I could have said no when he asked me out, but I didn't, and now we're all paying the price."

"You shut the fuck up right now," Joe demands, raising his voice. He should be guilty when Patrick flinches and stares at him like a child waiting to see if they're in trouble, but he feels only fury. "How dare you insinuate that you've earned what he's doing to you. How dare you think that you're the one to blame when he hits you. This is his fault, he's the villain here. Not you."

He glides forward and kneels down, grabbing Patrick's shoulders and locking eyes with him.

"It was never you. You're innocent, 'Trick." He swipes a thumb across the dampness of Patrick's cheek. "He's crazy for not loving you. The world burned all the mercy out of him, and it tried to do the same to you, but you didn't let it. You deserve so much more than what you're being given. He's an idiot for not realizing that."

A few tears slip over his hands. "I'm sorry," Patrick rasps. "I should never have brought you guys into this."

"No, Patrick, no," Joe murmurs. "Thank you for telling us. I-I don't want to think about what could happen if you didn't tell us. He could hurt you again, or worse." He grabs Patrick's hands and squeezes tightly. "We're going to protect you. I don't want you to feel bad for getting help."

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Suddenly, Joe's arms are full of a shaking, weeping Patrick, and it's all he can do to not squish the life out of him. Patrick chokes out, "It hurts. It hurts worse than anything."

Joe shushes him, muttering little things in his ear. "You're okay, you'll be okay, we'll ease the pain."

He whispers quietly, stroking a hand up and down his back, waiting, until Patrick's crying subsides. "I thought he loved me," he whimpers. "He cared about me when no one else did. I thought, thought he was the one, he was the one for me, and then he beat me."

"Never again, Patrick," Pete says, crouching down beside Joe. "No one's ever hurting you again." 

Patrick sniffles and pulls away, rubbing his eyes. "Okay." He looks at Joe's shirt and gives a clipped laugh. "S-sorry about your shirt, Joe."

Indeed, when Joe looks down, his shirt looks like a used tissue. Oh well, he never liked it anyways. He'll change later. He shrugs, hoping to ease Patrick's concern, and it earns him a tilt of the lips, which he savors. He smiles back, feeling love burst in his chest so intensely he almost chokes. He tries to get some of that love to shine through his eyes so that Patrick can see it. 

"You okay?" Andy asks, sitting next to Patrick and placing a hand on his back. 

Patrick nods. "I think so." He grins at Joe. "I'm better now."

Joe needs to kiss him. It's obvious he isn't _that_ in love with his boyfriend, and he's sure the singer wouldn't mind. That chaotic night plays through his mind, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Patrick was telling the truth. Hundreds of visions fly through his mind; he and Patrick kissing, he and Patrick cuddling, he and Patrick loving each other more than anything and anyone else. Patrick could be his, and he could be Patrick's. It's all he's ever wanted. He wonders if Patrick would kiss back. He wonders how deep they would get. It could just be a peck on the lips, like flipping a switch, but it could also be so much more than that. It could be little huffs and pants, choked gasps and quiet moans, tongues and teeth and love so fierce it could burn the whole world to the ground. 

He decides it's up to him to find out.

He leans in, bracing his hands on Patrick's shoulders, and prepares himself both mentally and physically. 

He's face to face with Patrick, their noses brushing. Patrick's cheeks are almost as pink as his lips, and his gorgeous eyes are swimming with confusion. "J-Joe?" He stutters, barely loud enough for him to hear. 

His life would be complete. He would finally find his missing puzzle piece. Everything would slide into place. He could at last be happy and full, he could at last love and be loved. He just needs to lean in, press his lips against velvet, and he will have fulfilled his life's purpose. He lets his eyes slip closed and breathes deeply, giving both himself and Patrick one last out. The singer doesn't shove him away when their breaths mix, doesn't move an inch. Joe would never dream of denying the chance to kiss Patrick.

He's just puckered his lips when the bus lurches forward, throwing him back into Pete with a loud thud. 

"Sorry guys!" The driver yells back from the front, and Pete groans before pushing Joe off of him. Joe's too stunned to do anything but roll away. 

_So close._

**_He was so fucking close._ **

He curses the driver, feels fire burn through him at the mere thought of the man in the front seat, because he was just about to get everything he's ever wanted, and it's been ripped away. It's teased him, was right infront of him, and now it's gone with the wind. Maybe if this stupid fucking road had been smoother, they would have flown right across it without a hitch. He wants to find whoever laid out the gravel for the highway and smash their face in. If they had just done a better job, he could have mended every crack in his heart. They have stolen from him the one thing that has kept him going. He hates the driver, he hates the construction crew, he hates this gods-damned road, and he hates himself for taking so long. 

Patrick gulps and shuffles his feet. "I-I, um... I'm gonna go take a nap. In the bunks. B-bye."

He stands awkwardly, and Joe notes hazily that there's a rather large bulge in his jeans. He doesn't have much time to admire it, though, because Patrick disappears soon after, closing the door behind him a bit too loudly. Joe hears the curtain of a bunk opening, fabric rustling, and then a muffled groan, but the rumble of the road drowns everything else out. No one speaks. Perhaps they're too stunned. 

Joe feels shame flood his cheeks when he catches Pete and Andy's pitiful stares, and he pulls himself to his feet quickly. "I'm fine," he grits out, looking away. He stomps to the front of the bus and sits next to the door, away from everyone else, and curls in on himself. He pulls his legs to his chest and hides his face in his knees, the denim dampening beneath his eyes.

Pete's lyrics have never been more relatable. 

_Love never wanted me._

_But I took it anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY PRIDE MONTH YA'LL!! Enjoy the parades, stay safe and most of all... BE PROUD!! 
> 
> -sincerely, a trans dude who is so proud of everyone.


	15. Burn a Bridge or Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick in the head.

Patrick groans when his head clears and he becomes aware of the stickiness in his pants. He needs to get cleaned up; if Pete ever found out about this, he'd never hear the end of it. The bassist has caught him in some rather compromising situations in the past, and he'll be teased for about two weeks at best. At worst... Pete still laughs over one incident in the van, even though it happened years ago. 

Sighing, Patrick slides his pants and boxers off of his thighs and leaves his bunk, ensuring that he covers himself with one of his hands. The other clutches his soiled clothes loosely, and when he opens his suitcase he buries them beneath everything else, making a mental note to wash them the next time the band stops at a hotel. He grabs fresh underpants and a pair of jeans that smell mostly decent, pulling them on and trying not to be bothered by the biting waistline of the denim. They probably shrunk in the wash. At least, that's what he tells himself. He could've sworn they fit him last week. 

If he had moved forward just a little bit, he'd be in a completely different situation right now. Rather than lying in his bunk with Garageband open, trying to stop the trembling of his lips, he and Joe would be drowning in each other, sharing themselves and putting their hearts on their sleeves. He wonders who would take the lead; there's a part of him that wants to grab Joe by the waist and pull him in and just _ravish_ him until they're both gasping for breath, but there's another part of him that wants to be loved and cared for, held and admired and caressed with feather-light touches that send sparks up his spine. He's fantasized about it plenty of times, even though it's not always Joe he pictures above him, sweaty and panting. 

This is all just so _confusing,_ and he really doesn't know how to feel.

Maybe this is what it was like for Bella in Twilight. 

But now that thought won't leave him. He's cast his reel into a sea of fantasies, and he may have hooked a new one. His hands cup his face and imagines it's someone else, someone leaning over him with adoration swimming in icy blue eyes. He can picture it so clearly it's as if it were a memory; Joe's hands stroking his cheek, Joe's hands grazing his neck, Joe's hands hitching up his shirt and stroking over his chest and holding him, loving him, _owning him-_

He rips his hand out from beneath his shirt and forces it to the screen.

He needs to stop. 

Joe probably tripped. There is _no way,_ not in a million lifetimes, that Joe would have gotten that close intentionally. Doing so would put their careers on the line and threaten the future of the band; if there's anything Joe wouldn't want, it'd be that. The guitarist had wanted to comfort Patrick, sure, but he'd just happened to lean forward a bit, accidentally pressed his nose to Patrick's and closed his eyes and puckered his lips-

Maybe it wasn't an accident. 

Hope rises in his heart like holy water filling a glass. What if Joe feels the same? What if he has a chance? Suddenly, thousands of fantasies seem so unbearably tangible his eyes sting. They could have everything; opening their eyes to tangled legs and bare chests, breathing morning breath into each other's lungs, sharing coffees and waking up to the world together, two halves of a whole.

It could work.

_It could actually work._

He just has to march out there and pull the man in, he only has to give the barest press of his lips against Joe's and every dream he's ever had could come true. Garageband has been completely forgotten as inspiration joins his hope. They swirl together and create a mix of glee Patrick had thought he'd left behind in his childhood. Joe could, no, he _would_ kiss back. They could be _together,_ they could be an _item,_ they could finally pull their heads out of their _fucking asses._

But what about Pete and Andy?

He deflates faster than a balloon with a hole the size of a golf-ball in its side. The hope and inspiration and happiness is drowned by pure, unfiltered anger. Anger at himself and his fucked-up emotions, anger at the driver for driving over the _one bump_ on this otherwise _spotless_ road, anger at Pete and Andy for not doing anything but watch and anger at Joe for not pitching forward just a bit. Just an inch.

He barely has enough sense in him to turn off his IPad before he digs his face into his damp pillow and bleeds out all the angst of his soul.

His cheeks are still soaked when he drifts into a dark, uneasy sleep. 

///

The venue's about an hour away when Andy hears it.

A dull thud, coming from the bunks. It sounds like something heavy.

He leaps to his feet so quickly he nearly snaps his spine when he comes to a conclusion; _Patrick._

Had he fallen out of bed? Had he tripped? Andy knows the singer can be a bit of a klutz sometimes, and he tries to convince himself that he's just stumbled over a stray pillow or his own shoelace, but a muffled cry comes to his ears and he knows he should stop kidding himself. What could have happened, though?

His thoughts are cut short like string when he hears an agonized scream. 

It chills his blood and sends something slithering down his spine, like spiders or insects or some other creature so disgusting it has not right to be in this world. His head is filled with silence, so unlike the strangled moans behind the door. He chokes as he sees Pete and Joe pass him in a blur, ripping away the door and marching through to the bunks. He manages to steel himself enough to follow them, but halts just a few paces away when he sees the lack of color on their faces. He soon sees why, and feels his own blood leave his cheeks.

Patrick's writhing on the ground, mouth dropping open as he lets loose sounds of incomprehensible suffering. He flail around wildly, clawing at his arms and chest, leaving thin red lines in their wake. It looks like blood against snow, and if he doesn't stop, it'll be real. Real blood against porcelain, so fair and pale, shining with sweat and blurring with movement.

Patrick's leg flies out and narrowly misses Joe's shin, and they're about to charge forward and pin his arms to the floor when he screams, stopping them dead in their tracks. 

"GET AWAY FROM ME! LET ME GO!"

Andy can only manage a horrified gasp as blunt fingernails dig into a shining forehead, pressing down so hard it brings red tears to the surface. They slide down Patrick's face like rain, snaking their way along his cheeks so slowly he wouldn't be able to see them moving if he wasn't looking hard enough. Patrick tugs at his mousey hair with one hand, the other still piercing his skin, and there's a sickening rip as he pulls free a chunk of his hair. 

"Patrick!" Pete cries, jumping forward and landing on the younger man's chest. It's almost like he's riding a bucking bull as Patrick arches beneath him, nearly knocking him off. "Calm the fuck down, man! Wake up!" 

Pete, it seems, has only made the situation worse.

Patrick's warbling cry rings in Andy's ears as he begins to sob. It starts as a mere trickle, nothing more than a dripping tap, but Pete shakes him and the floodgates fly open. He wails and lets the tears loose. Patrick's chest heaves unnaturally as rivers run down his face, and he's gasping like he's dying. Fuck, he _could_ be dying, they need to help him, _what the fuck do they do-_

Joe slips away, and Andy's a second away from reprimanding him for leaving their best friend alone like a coward when he comes back with a bottle of water. The pieces of his plan click into place, and Andy nods his approval at Joe's questioning gaze. Something hardens in the guitarist's face, and he unscrews the lid with thin, deft fingers, flicking the cap away.

He stomps over, placing a hand on Pete's shoulder and pushing, a silent demand for him to move. Pete hesitates, casting a concerned look at the man beneath him, but Joe mutters a quick, 'trust me,' and he reluctantly shuffles back. 

Joe tilts the bottle, the water snaking out, and takes a deep breath before dumping it on Patrick's face.

The effect is instantaneous; in a fraction of a second, Patrick goes from thrashing about to jolting up so hard Andy wonders if he's cracked his neck. The blood on his temples stains the water pink and mixes with his sweat, his tears washing away. He gasps as though he's just been underwater for hours on end, eyes wide and frantic. He pants through gritted teeth and pulls on his hair again, and Andy doesn't think any of them would be able to cope if he pulled more of his hair out, so he crouches down and grabs his wrists. Patrick squirms and tries to get free, but Andy doesn't dare let him go. 

Suddenly, the singer lurches forward, and Andy realizes a second too late that he's dry heaving. 

The black shirt and grey jeans he's wearing are drenched with vomit before he can react. The smell comes to him a moment later, and he almost throws up himself. He cringes and wills himself not to look down. He'd prefer it if his insides didn't become his outsides just yet. Oh God, he can _feel_ it, it's all wet and slimy and _gross._ He gags and covers his mouth, swallowing down the bile in his throat.

Patrick heaves again, tears streaming down his face, but Pete's taken the small garbage can from the front of the bus and placed it in front of him to avoid making a bigger mess. He throws the lid off and moves away just as Patrick ducks his head into the plastic lining. He retches, filling the bin, and _oh sweet Jesus_ this is _not_ what Andy thought he'd be doing this afternoon. 

Gingerly, Andy moves behind Patrick and lays a gentle hand on his back. He waits, gauging Patrick's reaction, and when the singer doesn't rip his hand off he slowly moves it up and down. He feels goosebumps pebble beneath his finger tips, and under other circumstances, he'd be embarrassed. But this isn't romantic at all, not in any way. So he just rubs Patrick's back and feels him shiver, and wishes that the events of this morning hadn't happened. 

Patrick leans back, wiping his mouth, and Andy lets his mind wander. 

He'd seen the bulge in Patrick's pants, he'd seen the lust swimming in those amazing eyes, but... he hadn't been as jealous as he thought he'd be. When Joe had leaned in, when Patrick hadn't pulled away, he wasn't envious or spiteful. He was just... happy. Content. They could've finally gotten what they'd both wanted. Andy loves Patrick fiercely, with a passion he's never known, but he also loves Joe. 

He thinks the word _polyamory_ describes this. He loves two people at once. That's not weird, right? No, he isn't weird. If he called himself weird, then that would mean he'd be calling every other polyamorous person weird, too. And they're not. 

He's really not sure about his feelings for Pete just yet. He knows for certain that if it were asked, he would gladly date him, but he doesn't feel that fire, that burning love like he does for Patrick and Joe. 

Who knows? Maybe Pete's poly too. His eye have lingered on Joe's ass a few times when he thinks the younger man isn't looking.

Andy decides that he'll wait to bring it up. After a concert, maybe? A hotel night? He'll plan it out later. 

"You okay?" Joe asks when Patrick doesn't look quite as close to keeling over.

The singer nods shakily. "I-I think so."

"You need anything? Water?" Andy notices that the bottle he'd used before is now empty, it's contents spilling over Patrick's face. 

"I... can you get water, please?" Patrick won't look at any of them when he answers, but his eyes flick to Andy briefly. "S-sorry about your clothes."

Andy tugs at the neck of his shirt, screwing his nose up as he feels the fabric peel away from his skin. "It's cool, dude. I'll just change."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." Andy gets up and opens his suitcase, retrieving new clothes and entering the back room. He takes care when removing his shirt, making sure the stain doesn't touch his face. He wipes down his chest with a sock and slips on a t-shirt, pulling up his jeans and balling up his clothes. He throws them in their designated 'laundry pile,' which is really nothing more than a pile of gross clothes in the corner of the back room. 

When he returns, the bin's gone, and Patrick's sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against his bunk and staring down at his hands. His head is hatless, hair ruffled and messy, and there's nothing Andy wants more than to stroke it and style it and mess it up again. The singer doesn't have his glasses, and from the bleary eyed stare he's wearing, it's obvious he can't see very well. As much as Andy enjoys that look, he knows Patrick hates not being able to see, so he goes to the man's backpack and unzips it, grabbing the small case from the little compartment in the back. Patrick either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

Andy clicks the case open and removes the black frames, sitting beside Patrick and tapping him on the shoulder. He looks up slowly, a weary expression on his face, and Andy smiles down at him. "Got your glasses," he says softly. Patrick nods numbly, making no move to take them, so Andy deigns to do it himself. "Here."

Andy unfolds the glasses and turns them around so that the lenses are facing him. He carefully moves forward and slides them onto Patrick's nose, making sure not to poke him in the eye. He tucks the tips behind Patrick's ears, sweeping away his fair strawberry strands, and leans back, admiring his work.

Patrick blinks, adjusting to his newly-cleared vision, and flushes bright red. "Th-thanks," he murmurs. Andy smiles wider.

Pete enters, holding a roll of paper towels. He rips free a sheet of paper and balls it up in his fist, crouching next to Patrick. He puts it to Patrick's forehead and begins to scrub away the mess on his face left over from the water. The bassist wipes over his cheeks and chin, swiping over everything twice, and soon Patrick's face is practically sparkling. He looks at Pete cautiously. 

"Joe went to empty out the bin," Pete supplies at Patrick's unspoken question. His eyebrows knit together, brown pools swimming with concern. "What happened, 'Trick?"

Patrick shrugs. "Bad dream, I guess. Nightmare." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "God, it was fucking terrifying."

"Was it like the last one?" Andy raises his eyebrows at Pete's question, suspicious, but Pete pays him no mind.

"No," Patrick answers. "I... this one was worse."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Andy asks, testing the waters. 

Patrick shakes his head frantically. "Too... too soon. M-maybe later, but, but not right now, I can't..."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Pete says, placing a hand on Patrick's knee. "You don't have to tell us."

Andy feels a twinge of guilt, but he keeps his face blank. When he sees Pete's hand on Patrick's knee, he isn't jealous. It just feels... natural. They've always been _PeteandPatrick,_ two halves of a whole, soulmates, all that bullshit Pete had said back in the day. He'd like to be involved in that relationship, but he doesn't want to intrude, so he stays silent and lets them enjoy their moment. He notices a blush rising to Patrick's face again, and he struggles to contain his grin; Patrick's always been cute to him, but he's most adorable when he's embarrassed. He's sure Pete agrees, if the toothy smile he wears is anything to go by. 

Joe sets foot into the room, only to pause and stare them all down. His gaze lingers on Pete and Patrick's contact, and something flashes in his eyes. "I'm gonna hang out in the front for a bit," he mutters. He throws a new bottle of water behind him as he leaves, slamming the door.

They all exchange a glance, and Pete sighs. "Let's, uh, let's just chill out until we get to the venue, okay?"

Andy can only manage a nod as he stares at the empty space Joe had occupied, something slithering in his gut. 

///

When they finally get to the venue, Joe doesn't look at any of them for more than a moment, keeping to himself. He tunes his guitar in the corner as though it contains every secret in the universe. None of them try to communicate. 

Patrick's voice is scratchy when he sings, and his voice breaks on a few high notes, despite the fact that he'd inhaled the entire bottle of water he'd received. Pete still thinks he sounds as angelic as ever, but he can tell that Patrick believes otherwise. The singer's eyes are hazy and vacant, and they even look a little damp as he belts out notes as loud as he can. He's sweating and red-faced, wiping his palms on his jeans. He's the hottest thing Pete's ever seen. 

As the chord of their last song rings out, and the audience cheers and hollers, Pete notices that Patrick's eyes have gone wide. He walks over, carefully avoiding the microphones, and whispers in Patrick's ear, "What's up?"

Patrick looks at him, then snaps his attention back to a spot in the crowd. Pete follows his eyes, standing on the tips of his toes and trying to see what the hell he's looking at, but he's ultimately unsuccessful. He turns back to Patrick, ready to ask him who it is he's staring at, but the redhead reads his mind like always.

"He's here."

Pete searches again, a certain face in his mind's eye, and he catches a glint of black hair just as someone leaves the building. 

A green gaze flicks up to meet his own for a second before disappearing with the wind. 

The green-eyed beast, it seems, is hunting them. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAS MY HERMIT CRABS JUST MOLTED I'M SO PROUD OF YOU GUYS.
> 
> Also my cat tried to eat my shirt and then jumped off my window, tried to grab on to me to stop his fall, and gave me this painful ass cut on my arm. 
> 
> (Hopefully it leaves a cool scar because I did not just go through that pain without getting anything out of it).


	16. Never Means Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves for some hecking history. 
> 
> Also Alpha Dog is a fucking bop okay.

Patrick forces on a brave face until they're finished. When they at last begin to pack up their instruments, there are still a few people lingering around, so he keeps up his façade until it's just the four of them. Pete spares him a worried glance over his shoulder as they leave the building and begin to trek down the sidewalk. Patrick tries to appear nonchalant, but the shaking in his hands refuses to stop. 

Gable _can't_ know. There's _no way_ he could have so much as an _inkling_ that Pete, Joe and Andy are aware of his actions. It's just not possible. 

He was probably just checking up on Patrick, making sure that nothing's amiss. 

Ignorance is bliss, he supposes, although he's not sure if it applies to him or Gable. 

"What's up, man?" Joe asks as they cross the street and journey down a pathway leading off of the curb. Lush trees stand in single file on both sides of the path, their branches twisting up and up, touching the sky and brushing the sun with their leaves. The canopy allows nothing more than watery light to trickle through its clutches. This pathway, Patrick thinks, is like a small, civilized rendition of a forest.

Patrick sighs, scanning for any prying eyes before saying in a low voice, "Gable was at the venue."

Andy and Joe's jaws drop open before they smack them back up. "He was?" Joe gasps, before covering his mouth when he realizes that this conversation is one the media really does _not_ need to be aware of. "Did he do anything?"

"No," Patrick answers with a shake of his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "But... he was watching us."

"Fantastic," Andy groans, wiping a hand across his face. "What the hell are we gonna do about him?"

"I already told you, I'll break up with him over the phone."

"But what if us protecting you isn't enough?" Pete quires, making Patrick's heart freeze in his chest. "What if he does something... crazy? Like that guy with the hockey mask and the machete."

"Pete, this isn't Friday the Thirteenth," Patrick tuts, crossing his arms. 

The path leads to a colorful, active playground. Children buzz about, swinging from monkey-bars and slipping down slides. Parents watch from afar, handbags or backpacks sitting next to them on their benches. A toilet block stands on the right side of the playground, and on the other, far enough away that it's secluded from the squeals and shrieks of delight, is a small pergola wreathed in jasmine. The little white flowers look like stars in a blanket of green. The wooden bench within the pergola looks a bit decrepit, and there's a light speckling of mold on its back. It at least seems useable. 

Patrick sets off for the pergola, making sure the others are following, and carefully sits down on the bench. It's stronger than it looks, apparently; it doesn't even groan beneath him, and he knows for a fact that he's not the smallest guy. The fragrant scent wafts throughout the small structure, tickling his nose as he sniffs it in eagerly. It's been a while since he's smelled something so sweet and pure, so untainted by the cruelties of the world. He wants to find whoever planted the jasmine and hug them within an inch of their life; their genius idea has spared him from insanity. 

Andy and Pete sit either side of him, and Joe plops down on the end. The guitarist's shoulder brushes Andy's, and he recoils immediately. Patrick only stares at them with a furrowed brow. Pete looks at him with the same expression, a question in his eyes.

"Sorry, uh." Patrick twiddles his thumbs as he tries to find an explanation. It'd just sort of been... instinct, to walk over and sit down and revel in that _gorgeous_ smell. "I just needed some fresh air. And I guess I kind of wanted a bit of solitude? I don't know."

"Oh!" Pete exclaims, jumping out of his seat. "We could leave, if you want."

"No! God, Pete, no, just-" Patrick sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I-I suppose I offer you all an explanation."

Andy frowns and leans forward to catch the singer's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"About Gable. You know, backstory and all that."

They all nod in understanding. Patrick doesn't know where to start, but Pete seems to catch onto this and starts for him. "So..." he drawls. "Once upon a time..."

"There was a deadbeat musician that everyone hated," Patrick finishes. He can see the gears turn in Pete's head, locking in place, and he's about to retort, but Patrick cuts him off. "And the musician, idiot that he was, decided to go on tour and promote his album. Of course, because everyone hated him, he hardly made any money, and no one cheered for him anymore." The dark memories come rushing back, and Patrick forces them away. _No,_ he thinks, _never again._ "Until one person did."

Andy raises a brow. "And that person was named Gable." 

"Bingo." Patrick smiles sadly, nostalgia squeezing its way around his chest like a corset that's too tight. "So, after the show, the musician thanked Gable, told him he was the first fan to actually applaud him in months, and Gable smiled at him. He complimented the musician's skills and asked if he wanted to hang out some time. The musician immediately said yes. Loneliness makes people desperate, after all."

"That wasn't desperation, Patrick," Andy chides, frowning. "Anyone would have said yes."

Patrick scoffs. "Right, sure, totally," he deadpans, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, they hung out, and Gable gave the musician his number and asked him to call. The musician hadn't had a real friend in months, so he called the minute he got home. They talked about all kinds of stuff; they had a lot in common. They both liked David Bowie, they both played music, we- _they_ both decided that they should meet up again soon. Gable bought a ticket to the next show, and they hung out again."

"At least he was using his money for something other than wiping his ass," Pete chimes in beside him with a huff.

Patrick chuckles. "I suppose." His smile disappears a minute later as he continues with his story. "It went on like that, and soon enough, a month had gone by. They texted and talked nearly every day, and Gable was at every show. So far, he seemed like a nice guy, and the musician considered him a good friend. After the next show, Gable said he wanted to be more than that. The musician said yes, again, because he just was _so_ attention deprived. They started dating, and eventually, the tour was over. The musician moved in with Gable, and everything was hunky-dory for a while."

"But?" Andy presses.

"But then the musician got a call from someone he thought he'd left behind." Patrick looks at Pete with a bittersweet turn of the lips, eyes glossing over. He wipes at them hastily before continuing. "They got together and wrote a bunch of music, and the musician decided to leave his solo career behind. They called their two friends, and soon, the band they'd decided to take a break on was back." Patrick's throat bobs as he recalls the interaction, the planning, the reunion. "They released a new album and planned to go on tour, and the musician was super happy. Like, _really_ happy. He had everything he'd ever wanted; a great partner, an awesome band, fame and glory and love."

Patrick chokes up, eyes shining, and Pete grabs his hand. "You don't have to."

But, the thing is, he _absolutely_ fucking does, so he shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and powers on. "So of course he told his boyfriend. But, the thing is, Gable wasn't happy or excited or jumping with joy. He was... he was angry. And he accused m- the musician of betraying him, leaving him behind in favor of his band. Of course, that wasn't true, and the musician told him as such, but Gable didn't believe him. They ended up arguing and..." Patrick gasps wetly, rubbing his eyes. "And Gable hit him."

Pete bites out a curse, Andy breathes out a shaky exhale and Joe's face hardens. It's nice, at least, to know that he's not blamed for this. Not from what he can tell, anyways. "Gable apologized later," Patrick murmurs, clenching his fists. "He told the musician it would never happen again, that he would never hit him again. The musician believed him, and they made up."

"It happened again, didn't it?" Joe says quietly from the other end of the bench. It's the first thing he's said to any of them all day."

"It happened again," Patrick confirms. "Gable would get high, or drunk, or just really damn angry, and he'd hit the musician. Every time, he'd say he was sorry, but every time his apologies seemed less sincere. Soon, he just stopped apologizing. He'd just. He'd say, say, _this is what you deserve, I'm doing this because I love_ _you,_ shit like that." Patrick shudders at the words that are now fresh in his mind, playing on repeat like a scratched record. "Soon enough, the musician went on tour, and he kept contact with his- with Gable." _He didn't have much of a choice,_ is what he doesn't need to say. 

"And now he's watching the musician's shows like a fucking psychopath?" Pete says, crossing his arms. 

"Y-yes, but," Patrick sighs, removing his hat to run a hand through his hair. He puts the black fedora back in place a moment later, adjusting it so it hides as much of his face as possible. "They talked, over the phone, and Gable... he said that, after one of the concerts, they should get a hotel room together." A painful lump roots itself in his throat. "The musician refused, because as much as he loved his... as much as he loved Gable, he wasn't ready. Gable got angry, and they had another argument. The musician got pissed and threw his phone at the wall."

Horrible, sickening realization flashes across the faces of his bandmates. He chuckles mirthlessly, smiling a sad smile. "His bandmates asked him what was wrong, but he was a fucking idiot and refused their help, and because he was a coward and he couldn't face his problems, he went and got drunk." He doesn't remember much of that night, the night everything had gone to hell, so now he's going off of what he was told. "His bandmates had to come and pick him up. He was hungover the next morning, but they took care of him."

Warmth trickles down his face, and he only realizes he's crying when Andy sweeps a finger beneath his eyes delicately. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. _In, out, in, out. Focus, focus._

"But Gable had to be a fucking dickbag and show his ugly face at the next concert, didn't he?" God, Pete sure is adamant about showing his hatred for Gable. Patrick huffs out a watery laugh, grinning through his tears. 

"And the musician told his bandmates everything about Gable afterward." _Stop crying, dammit, you're supposed to be telling them the story, not sobbing over things that are already over and done with._ "And they supported him through it all. They were the friends he didn't deserve."

"Actually, Patrick," Joe starts, standing up and making his way infront of Patrick. He gets down on his knees and places a hand on Patrick's thigh. "They were the friends that would never leave him, no matter what. They were the friends he deserved just as much as he deserved happiness, and freedom, and love."

People are looking at them, _shit,_ they probably look fucking insane. A mother gasps indignantly and covers her child's eyes with her hand, glaring. Others look at them with sympathy, pitying the crying boy with his strange friends. Some watch as though the four members of Fall Out Boy, sitting in the jasmine lined pergola on a rickety old bench in a nameless park, have two heads. 

But he just can't stop crying. _Fuck,_ he'd though that he'd run dry, he'd thought he'd cried so much in the past few days that he was finished. Obviously, he needs to start thinking more logically. Who would be able to keep from crying when they have friends like these?

"Thank you," he chokes out, squeezing Joe's hand where it's planted on his leg. "Thank you so much."

"Of course, Patrick," Joe says back, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Patrick is overwhelmed with the urge to connect their lips, but he forces himself to stay still. He's probably not the most kissable person when he's crying

Patrick's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he wipes at his nose with a sniffle. "I-I should probably see who that was," he says on a laugh. 

"Yeah, go ahead," Joe says back, standing and sitting back down. 

Patrick pulls out his phone and unlocks it, finding a new message.

Suddenly, the sentimentality of the last few moments has been ripped away by cruel, mangled hands. 

Suddenly, he regrets ever hinting at Gable's actions behind closed doors.

His phone falls from numb, stiff fingers as his mouth drops open. Pete immediately demands to know what's going on, but Patrick can't answer him as he stares at the message glaring at him from the cracked screen. 

_I told you to stay quiet._


	17. Dedicate Your Last Breath To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's all I want this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK SO I THOUGHT I LOST THIS CHAPTER WHEN I WAS WRITING IT BUT I DIDN'T SO FUCK YAAAASSSS

They're running to the bus.

Like, actual, full-blown running. 

Andy pumps his arms in smooth, fluid motions, swiftly passing pedestrians as he crosses the street. Joe's at his side, curls bouncing, and Pete's behind both of them, making sure Patrick keeps up. The singer looks to be about five seconds from either having a panic attack or passing out on the side of the road. His knees buckle, and Pete holds an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. Andy's stomach lurches at the sight, but he can't stop. He's really not sure why, but his instincts scream at him to _run, keep running, get to the bus and get your asses out of this town._

It was Patrick's idea. 

When he'd regained composure, he'd snatched up his phone and stammered out, "We have to leave. _Now."_

And then they were running. 

So here they are, about a block away from the tour bus, and _God,_ it's so close he can almost feel it. They round the corner and the bus is _right there,_ at the end of the street, parked on the other side of the road. It's far away, his lungs are starting to burst, but it's right there. He just has to keep going, power through the nausea, come on. 

A shout rings out behind him, and he barely has enough sense left in his oxygen-deprived body to turn around and stop. 

They are so close to the bus, but it would be pointless if their most well-known member isn't there.

Pete's on the ground, cradling his knee to his chest, and Patrick's leaning over him, telling him to _get up, they have to keep going, they aren't safe._ Andy's not entirely sure how he got that impression, but it sends a spike of fear through his heart regardless. 

He and Joe walk over, their legs numb and stiff, and Patrick looks up at him pleadingly. "Please," he begs. "We can't stop."

Andy wants to demand answers, but there are a few factors stopping him from doing so; the first being that he can't get enough air in his lungs to announce a full question. The second being that adrenaline and fear pulse in his heart wildly, and there's that same old instinct pulling him to the bus as though it's a lifeline. And the third is that Patrick looks like he's going to start hyperventilating, and if he does, that means they'll make a scene, and people will ask questions, and it'll take _even longer_ to get to that God-damn bus.

"Come on," he pants, and in one swift action, he grabs Pete beneath the armpits and throws him over his shoulder. Before he can succumb to the weight of another body on his, he begins running again. He can hear Joe and Patrick behind him, gasping wildly. 

Finally, after years upon years of waiting, they reach the end of the block. The traffic thins out and he makes a break for it, head snapping left and right in a trained movement as he sprints across the road. He throws the door open and holds it there for Joe, with Patrick trailing behind him. 

The minute the door closes, Pete slips from his shoulders. They both groan at the dull aches resting in their bodies, Pete rubbing his tail bone and Andy rolling his shoulder. They all pant, red-faced, and Patrick leans against a wall, his fedora forgotten on the floor next to him. He slides down and hides his face in his shaking hands. 

To Andy's surprise, the singer doesn't cry. He merely lifts his head with the strength of a ragdoll and says, tone full of conviction, "I hate him."

The words sound strange and alien on Patrick's tongue. Patrick's voice has always breathed compliments and reassurance, jovial comments and trivial stories. Not hatred. Never hatred. 

Pete huffs out a dry laugh. "I'm glad we finally agree on something."

Patrick doesn't return his smile. Instead, he lets his head fall back and hit the wall behind him with a resounding thud. He sighs heavily, sweat drying on his brow. "I'm ready for today to be over," he mutters, exhaustion clouding his eyes. He stands on wobbling legs, grabbing his hat, and stalks over to the bunks. "I'm taking a nap."

Joe takes a faltering step towards him. "Um, hey, Patrick?" He calls hesitantly. The singer turns to face him with raised brows. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Patrick blanches, his mouth stretching into a firm line. "S-sure, Joe."

With that, they disappear through the doorway, and Andy is left wondering what kind of conversation they'll be having, and what kind of impact it might have on all of their lives. 

He hopes they finally confess. He isn't sure why. He chalks it up to them being happy, and him being happy for them. Yeah, that's it.

Strangely, he's not jealous.

Only curious. 

///

Joe's going to tell him.

He's actually going to tell him.

But, the minute that door closes, he's having second thoughts. _Patrick won't feel the same. Patrick will hate you. Patrick will never get that close to you again._

Maybe they'd still be friends, if this conversation went awry. They could still talk and joke and be idiots together. It might not be the same, if Patrick knew Joe's feelings, but Patrick is a merciful soul. So it's a possibility that he won't scream in Joe's face and destroy the band. 

Patrick seems to be expecting a quick conversation, maybe about their next setlist or hotel, rather than one of the heaviest conversations since the hiatus. He yawns and half-heartedly covers his mouth, murky eyes dull and unfocused. 

Joe, instead, leads them to the backroom. He shuts the door as an extra precaution; he'd rather be caught masturbating than confessing his feelings. He sits on the bed and Patrick sits next to him, legs crossed and chin balanced on a knuckle. He toys with his hat in his lap, pulling on the brim and shifting it around. Joe finds it just as enamoring as everything else Patrick does.

Yawning again, Patrick flicks his bleary eyes to Joe. "So," he slurs, voice thin. "What'd you wanna talk about?"

"It, um," Joe swallows, as if it'll help the churning in his stomach. "It's kind of important."

Patrick raises a brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Fuck, he can't say it. He can't say _I love you,_ he can't say _I want to be with you,_ he can't say _I need you to love me back._ He just can't. It's so _blunt,_ it's so _direct,_ and he can't do it. 

But maybe he doesn't have to be direct.

"Have you ever..." He trails off, unsure of where he's going with this. "Have you ever been friends with someone for, like, a crazy long time, and suddenly, you want that to change?"

That seems to peek Patrick's interest. He lowers the hand supporting his chin and straightens his back, locking eyes with Joe. Joe has to look away. He can't say this if he's staring at those unearthly eyes.

Patrick shrugs. "Maybe."

That could be him. Patrick could be in love with him. He could love him. 

_This could work this could work this could work this could-_

"Have you ever had a best friend who you suddenly wanted to be more?"

Patrick's face remains completely emotionless, unreadable. "You're asking me if I've been in love with someone? Someone who I've known for a long time?"

Joe tries to appear nonchalant, shrugging, but he doubts it's convincing. "I suppose."

"Have you?"

This is perfect. This is the opportunity he's been begging for, this is what he has pleaded for so many times. A chance to show himself, a chance to let go and love, a chance to speak his mind. It's all he's ever wanted.

"Yes."

"Oh."

Like a sparkler at the end of its life, Patrick hunches again, looking away. His eyes darken, and his entire form just... droops. He looks like someone's told him his dog died. He blinks rapidly, as if withholding tears, and Joe can only watch in horror as Patrick turns away.

"Good luck, then," Patrick rasps. His voice nearly breaks, and he takes a shuddering breath before continuing. "I hope you get with them, I guess. Mazel tov."

Joe chuckles nervously. "I-I see you've picked up on my Jewish-ness."

Patrick doesn't answer.

And Joe knows, as he sits there waiting, that he's fucked up royally.

So he leaves, and he doesn't look back.

Maybe Patrick didn't understand. Maybe he thought Joe was talking about someone else. He should go in there, he should elaborate and specify.

But what if Patrick understood perfectly? What if he'd understood everything Joe had said and hated him for it? 

He'll just make a fool out of himself if he goes back. 

He wants to. So badly.

He can't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help I'm learning Norwegian and I don't know why.
> 
> I'm already learning Spanish and Japanese.
> 
> What is wrong with me.
> 
> (I tried learning French but I spent an entire day trying to pronounce a word and I still can't say it right so screw you France.)


	18. I Know It's Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lips pressed close to mine.
> 
> Minor TW for a panic attack.

Joe's in love. 

The scene plays over and over in his mind like a scratched record, never stopping. He can hardly hear the rumbling of the road over the blood pounding in his ears. God, his head hurts. He presses his hands over his ears tightly, trying to block out everything. He can't deal with this, he can't.

He should have told him sooner. He should have confessed everything sooner. If he had, Joe could be his, and this... this _mystery person,_ who he might not even know, would never have snatched him away. They could have been _dating._

But, like always, Pete and Andy come into the picture.

Fucking love.

He hates it. 

///

They play another concert a few hours later. Andy's drums ring throughout the arena, Pete's bass makes the floor shake, Joe's guitar screams notes louder than the fans and Patrick's voice is the cherry on top. Everything mixes together in a wild blur; one minute, they're playing a song from their very first album, and the next, they're playing their latest single. It's crazy, knowing that thousands of people know the lyrics to songs they'd written over ten years ago. 

It's also crazy that Gable isn't in the crowd tonight. After the past few hours, Patrick thought that he'd be circling the band like a hawk poised to strike. But there are no fancy suits or combed beards, no slicked back hair or piercing green eyes. Only thousands of fans, yelling their lyrics back to them and waving their arms, and exasperated looking parents and friends, watching the band with little to no interest. Sure, they bop along and nod their heads a bit, but their hearts aren't in it. That hurts, just a bit, but Patrick's had worse.

Like the chain of emotions weighing him down. It's difficult to move around on the stage, and he only puts in the effort to please the audience. He's a bit of a hypocrite, he supposes, because his heart isn't in it, either. The chords he strums out on his guitar sound low and depressing, and his voice carries like a mourning cry. He's been nervous, excited and downright elated to perform in the past, but there's hardly been a time when he's wanted to run off stage and leave everything behind him.

He's exhausted when they're finished. With a final wave at the still screaming audience, he hops off the stage and hands his guitar to a nameless person in a dark uniform. They hand him a bottle of water, and he thanks them with a wave. He marches to his dressing room without so much as a glance over his shoulder, slamming the door and leaning against it heavily. He slides down until he hits the tiles and sighs deeply. His eyelids are heavy and his throat feels like sand paper. He unscrews the water and takes a deep gulp, savoring the nectar on his tongue.

For the second time in the past forty-eight hours, he's ready for today to be over. 

And, for the second time in the past forty-eight hours, he doesn't get his wish.

There's a knock at the door, followed by a voice calling out for him.

"Patrick!"

It's Joe.

Fucking fantastic. 

With a sigh, he stands up and opens the door. Joe's diamond eyes meet his a moment later, swimming with apprehension. "Can I talk to you real quick?"

"You already did," Patrick hisses, narrowing his eyes. "What more is there to talk about?"

Joe swallows thickly. "Yeah, I know I did, but..." he drags his gaze along Patrick's body slowly. "I don't think you understood."

Patrick crosses his arms in front of himself, feeling violated by Joe's eyes. "I understood just fine. You're in love with someone. End of story."

"But do you know who that person is?"

And, well, that really takes the chair out from underneath him. He regains his composure and glares at his friend. "No. No I don't. And I don't want to, either."

"I think you do, actually." Joe lets himself in and shuts the door behind him. He presses the small button in the handle, and it locks with a small click. "Go on, guess."

Patrick glowers at him, despite the anxiety budding in his chest. "Fine," he sighs. "But give me a hint, first."

"They're in Fall Out Boy."

That certainly narrows it down a bit.

The anxiety in his chest is growing, threatening to choke him as he says, "Is it Andy?"

Joe shakes his head. "Nah. Not really, anyway."

Patrick decides to focus on the conversation at hand, rather than trying to figure out what that means. "Pete?"

Joe laughs. "Nope. Definitely not Pete."

Patrick's hands shake. His legs go weak beneath him. With the last sliver of sarcasm in his weary, confused heart, he says, completely deadpan, "Are you in love with yourself?"

Joe laughs again, harder this time, and Patrick's heart fucking stops. Joe just shakes his head and clutches his stomach, wheezing. "Fucking- oh my god, Patrick," he gasps, wiping his eyes.

Oh God. 

_Oh God oh God oh God._

When Joe's eyes dry, Patrick's become wet. "I-I, y-you," he stutters helplessly. "What?"

Joe smiles. It's small and barely there, but it's so genuine that water begins to streak down Patrick's cheeks. "Do you understand, Patrick?"

No. No he does not understand.

Joe loves _him?_ Joe was talking about _him?_ Why? When? For how long?

He has so many questions to ask, so many things to say, but all he manages is a squeaked, "Me?"

Something sad ripples in Joe's eyes. "Yes, Patrick," he whispers, stepping forward with his arms spread wide. "Always you."

Patrick sobs, tears meeting at his chin before dripping to the tiles below. He wants to fall forward, he wants Joe to catch him and hold him and kiss him, but he's scared. What if this is a joke? What if it's all a prank, and someone will appear with a loud 'gotcha,' or 'you should have seen the look on your face,' phone in hand and expecting him to laugh it off? What if this is all just for views on the Internet?

"Are you lying?" Dammit, his vision is blurring over, he can't see Joe's face.

Joe lets out a surprised sound. "Patrick, I-"

"ARE. YOU. LYING." He's scared, fuck, he's fucking terrified, oh God-

"No. Never. I love you, Patrick."

Patrick's knees buckle, giving out beneath him, and he falls to the floor, hugging himself tightly. His bottom lip trembles and his unseeing eyes are so wide it hurts. He jams his hands into his armpits, trying to ground himself, but he ultimately fails. He can't remember how Pete helped the last time he had a panic attack. Questions? Was it questions? The walls are closing in, everything's too close but too far away at the same time, his blood is roaring in his ears, _he can't fucking breathe-_

"Patrick."

Joe. Focus on Joe. He's here, he's with you, you're okay.

_He's not okay he's not okay he's not okay._

He can't handle this.

He's scared. 

"Hey."

Focus.

Listen to him.

"Breathe."

Listen to him.

Do as he says. He knows what's best.

He can't breathe.

He's going to die. 

"You're okay, Patrick."

He's not.

Not at all. 

"Come here."

Suddenly, he's surrounded by golden warmth, and it's so beautiful it makes him cry harder. He's pulled closer, towards something hard and strong, and he immediately throws his arms around it, holding on for dear life. He shivers, sweating heavily. He's gasping, trying to breathe, but air doesn't seem to reach his lungs. He tries harder and harder, ultimately failing. It hurts.

"Breathe with me."

The warmth he's clinging to begins to rise and fall steadily, and he realizes it's someone's chest. Disoriented, he opens his eyes and tries to assess the situation, but his vision is still blurry, so he closes them again. He pins all his attention on the solid chest against him, trying hastily to mimic its movements. A hand strokes down his back and another cards through his hair, and he finds himself melting beneath the touch. His closed up throat opens again, and gradually, the heaving of his chest becomes less frantic. Soon, he's breathing normally. 

Exhaustion pounces on him, and he burrows further into the golden warmth, the world drifting away. He's almost asleep when his shoulders are pushed back and he's faced with an intense stare. 

"Are you with me?" Joe asks, a wrinkle of concern in his brow.

Patrick exhales shakily. "Y-yeah. Sorry. I just..." he meets Joe's eyes and almost flinches at the intensity they hold. He cracks a thin smile. "It's kind of a shock."

Joe smiles back. "I guess it is. Sorry for springing that on you all of a sudden."

"It's fine, Joe," Patrick says. "I think I just got scared."

"Scared of what?"

Patrick shrugs. "Wh-what would happen, I guess? I mean, if people found out they'd be all over us, and we both know our society is a giant nest of homophobes, a-and I'm worried that the band would like... fall apart. I don't know."

Joe frowns. "We don't have to get together, you know. If you don't want to. You don't wanna risk the band and I don't either, and, well, we could still be friends."

"No!" Patrick shouts a bit too quickly. He gets himself back in line when Joe jumps back. "No, fuck no, I wanna do this. I-I want to... I want to be with you. The world just scares me. It always has."

"Don't be scared," Joe murmurs, cupping his cheek. "I'll shield you from the waves. If they find you, I promise I'll protect you."

Patrick knows, then, that there's only one response to that.

He inches closer, bracing his hands on Joe's forearms, and presses his pink lips to Joe's.

He feels the guitarist stiffen beneath him, and for one horrible moment he's afraid he's done the wrong thing, but Joe grabs the back of his head and pulls him closer, and his inhibitions fade like ash in the wind. His eyelids flutter before drifting shut, and his hands drift to Joe's back, trailing up and tugging on his hair. Reality's fading as their lips move in unison, breathing into each other's lungs. He could do this forever. He wants to kiss Joe's lips until they bleed.

Patrick can't resist when Joe's mouth parts. He opens his own and, God, now they're really kissing, huffing softly and pulling at each other like teenagers. Joe lets out a small sigh and snags Patrick's bottom lip between his teeth. Patrick moans and brushes his hand against Joe's cheek, wondering briefly if Joe ever stops to breathe.

Apparently so. They break apart when oxygen becomes sparse, panting heavily. "Love you," Patrick murmurs against Joe's mouth. "Love you so much."

"Love you too, Patrick," Joe answers with a groan. "Please... please tell me I'm the only one. Even if it's not true."

Patrick's love-drunk mind sobers at that. He leans back with a quick peck to the corner of Joe's mouth. "I don't know how I feel, Joe," he breathes truthfully. "I know I love you, I really do, but... but I think I love Pete and Andy too. Just as much as you."

Joe nods, smiling. "Got it." He presses a quick kiss to Patrick's temple. "I could help you figure it out, if you want. I don't mind."

"I like the sound of that." Patrick grins broadly, teeth showing. "And I may not know how I feel, but I know I definitely wanna keep kissing you."

Joe smirks. "I think that can be arranged." 

With that, they continue losing themselves in each other. He's so lost in bliss, Patrick forgets about Gable, he forgets about Pete and Andy, and the only thing running through his mind is _Joe Joe Joe._ He lets love lead him, and as he kisses, no, as he _makes out_ with his bandmate in this dingy changeroom in Oregon, he knows only one thing.

He's going to be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.
> 
> Come thank me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/onaspectrum2006
> 
> Marcela, sorry the scene didn't go exactly as you worded in one of your comments, but I felt that it was about time to include your genius ideas in this story, and this is a good place to start. You're amazing, hun, and this work could never have existed without you. Stay frosty!


	19. Choose Love or Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But never both.

Something's changed. 

Between the time they left the stage to the time they're entering the bus, Patrick and Joe have gone from barely talking to barely keeping any distance between them and hanging on each other like teenagers in love. They're pressed shoulder to shoulder when they exit the arena, and their fingers are laced together as they climb onto the bus. Joe swings their hands a bit, and Patrick giggles and lays his head on the guitarist's shoulder. 

Pete feels jealousy, pure and hideous, writhing in his stomach as he watches the display from behind them. _He_ should be the one holding Patrick's hand, _he_ should be the one making him laugh, _he_ should be the one walking to the bunks with an arm around the singer's waist. He glares at Joe's back and wishes he'd disappear from this plain of existence as the door closes behind the two. He pretends he doesn't hear the peels of laughter through the wall. It makes something in his chest ache, like his heart has been covered in cement and dropped to the bottom of the ocean. 

Because he can't help himself, because he _needs_ to know what they're doing, Pete presses his ear against the wall and listens. He knows he should feel guilty; he's invading their privacy after all. But he only feels anger and morbid, deadly curiosity fighting a battle in his mind. Curiosity has the upper hand for now. 

"You sang beautifully tonight, you know." At Joe's voice, he bristles. "You're practically an angel. I'm not sure what this world ever did to deserve you."

Patrick laughs, and the sound makes his throat tighten painfully. "I'm not so sure. I mean, it wouldn't have been possible if you weren't there. You bring the whole thing together, Joe."

What about _him?_ _He's_ the one who writes the lyrics, _he's_ the one who does the speeches, _he's_ the one who started the band in the first place. _He's_ the one who brought it all together, not Joe. Joe was just an assistant. A lowly, expendable assistant. He never helped write the songs, he never tried to stop the fights, he didn't even _try_ to prevent the band from breaking up. He just sat there, picking his nails and rolling his eyes, and Pete's so disgusted he thinks he'll be sick.

Despite his growing nausea, Pete continues to listen.

He wishes, soon after, that he hadn't.

"It's still so surprising," Patrick breathes. "I can't believe what happened actually... happened."

Joe chuckles as Pete's confusion grows. That morbid curiosity is making him burst at the seams, and he's ready to rip the walls down to find out what the hell it is they're talking about if he doesn't find out soon. "It's a bit of a shock for me, too. Sorry for freaking you out."

"It was worth it, though, wasn't it?"

"Definitely. Your lips are just as soft as they look, babe."

Fuck.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

They kissed.

They fucking _kissed._

Joe is a dead man. 

Joe took Patrick away. Joe stole him.

Joe kissed him. On the lips.

 _Pete_ was supposed to do that. _Pete_ was supposed to have him. _Pete_ was supposed to kiss him.

He wants to march in and throw Joe to the ground. He wants to demand answers, he wants to find out the truth, and he wants to make Joe suffer. He stole a kiss, he stole a man, he stole a heart, and it all belonged to Pete. Patrick was Pete's, all Pete's, and Joe fucking ruined it, with his blue eyes and his curly hair and his army of tattoos. Why didn't Patrick want _him?_ Why is Patrick Joe's now? Why can he hear them kissing in their bunks, loving each other and leaving him behind? 

Patrick's voice brings him out of his internal war. "What are we, Joe?"

 _Just friends. You're just friends and nothing more and you should never_ be _anything more because you're mine and I love you and-_

"What do you want to be? Lovers? Boyfriends?"

He's not crying, he's just got something in his eye.

It's definitely not tears.

No way.

"I... lovers sounds... nice. Gable always called me his boyfriend and stuff, so, uh, I guess I don't really like that title."

_You are not lovers **we're** lovers you're mine you're mine you're mine-_

"And what about Pete and Andy?"

What.

What the fuck Joe. 

What the hell does Andy have to do with this? What does _he_ have to do with this? Are they gonna rub it in their faces, abandon the tour and go on some honeymoon together? What are they planning?

"Well, Pete always said he and I were soulmates. I don't really think Andy would go for the whole 'we're lovers and boyfriends and we love each other so much' deal."

They _are_ soulmates. They will _always be_ soulmates. That can't change. It won't change.

Pete stops listening.

He can't deal with this. 

He remembers buying a full carton of beer before their show.

That's just what he needs. 

///

Joe could have a house of gold and a safe full of diamonds, but nothing would ever make him as happy as Patrick. He loves everything about the singer; his stormy eyes, his copper hair, his golden voice, his velvet lips. He loves it all, right down to the mole on his forehead. He presses a small kiss to it, basking in the contentedness he feels when Patrick leans into the touch before slotting their lips together again. Joe moans softly and lets his hands snake their way up Patrick's sides, trailing over his hips teasingly. Patrick whines into his mouth and shifts forward, tongue sliding against Joe's, and he thinks he's going to either cum in his pants or pass out. 

He's pushing Patrick into the bed and hitching up his shirt when a knock at the door interrupts them. At first, they decide to ignore it, kissing pointedly, but the knock comes again a little louder, along with a loud shout of, "Open up, lovebirds!"

They break apart slowly, irritation swimming in Patrick's eyes, and Joe slides out of the bunk. He opens the door a few inches, taking care to hide the, ahem, _substantial_ bulge in his jeans. "What's up?"

"Pete's pissed about something," Andy answers, trying to peak inside the room.

Joe steps in his way with a glare, and the drummer backs down willingly. "And you came to us because..?"

"He's saying stuff about Patrick. Said that he's 'not good enough' and that Patrick would 'never love someone like him,' whatever that means." He makes quotation marks with his fingers and sighs exasperatedly. 

Joe's eyes widen. "Oh, uh, I'll go get Patrick, then."

Andy seems satisfied, so he closes the door and walks back to the bed. Patrick looks at him expectantly, arms crossed. "Well?"

"I think Pete needs you," Joe says, shrugging. "'M not really sure why, and I know this is shitty timing, but it sounds kind of serious."

Patrick's anger seems to fade at this. "You think I should go see him?"

"I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? We can resume our... _activities_ later."

"Alright, fine," Patrick says, chuckling. "Wish me luck."

Joe grins. "May the force be with you, babe."

///

Pete's drunk.

He smells it first; the bitter tang in the air, lingering like a bad memory as it violates his nostrils and makes him choke. He hears it next, Pete's crazed giggles and slurred mutterings. 

He sees it when Andy leads him to the couch. He sees Pete, laying with his feet propped up on the wall, holding an empty bottle in one dangling hand. His hair is skewed and his hoodie is rumpled, and as he regards Patrick with a hazy eye the singer feels a seed of anxiety plant itself in his chest. He swallows thickly and opens his mouth to greet him, but Pete cuts him off.

"Look who it is," he slurs, grinning wildly. "'S Pattycakes, everyone! Give 'im a round of applause!"

Pete begins to clap, palm thudding against the glass bottle as he whoops, and Andy sighs. "I'm gonna go take a nap. Sort it out, you two. And don't make a mess."

Patrick's about to grab his arm and ask him to stay, because he doesn't feel safe on his own, but Andy's already gone. He and Pete are left alone, one drunk and one scared out of his mind.

"Um, hi, Pete," Patrick says awkwardly, shuffling his feet. "Wh-what's up?"

Pete's grin stretches so widely it hardly seems to fit on his face. "Oh, man, tons o' shit. A whole fucking truckload of it."

Patrick frowns. "What happened?"

"Oooh! Are you gonna be my therapist, Pattycakes?" Patrick glowers as he nods, and Pete chuckles. "Well, y'see, it all started a while ago. Ten years is a while ago, right? Or maybe it was twelve. Either way, there was this fucking gorgeous guy. Super cute, too. And I was like 'dang, I gotta date his ass.' But I never did 'cause I'm a goddamn chicken and he's too fucking cute."

That seed of anxiety is beginning to flower. "And what did you do? Let him go?"

"I tried. And it hurt, man, _ow._ I couldn't stay away. I decided, 'hey, what've you got to lose?' So, after the show tonight, I decided I was gonna tell him how I felt, y'know? But before I could he walked out with this other guy, and they kissed, and he got taken away from me."

"Oh, um, that sucks, Pete. I'm sorry."

"You should be," Pete says lifelessly, and Patrick's breathing stops. "I was thinking 'bout kissing you, after all."

Oh shit.

Pete was going to-

But then Joe- 

And he-

Holy fucking shit.

Screw that measly seed, there's a whole fucking forest of anxiety and shock bursting between his lungs

"I-I," Patrick tries, but his voice fails him and he doesn't know what to say. "You were gonna..?"

Pete nods with a sad giggle. "Yep." He pops the p. "And then Joe stole you."

"J-Joe didn't steal me, he just-"

"Kissed you and made you his boyfriend. Basically the same." Pete glares at him. "I was 'sposed to do that, you know. I was gonna kiss you, I was gonna tell you, I was even ready to fuck you. Had lube in my bag and condoms in my pocket."

Patrick's ears catch fire as his eyes grow wet. "Really? You wanted me?"

"Duh," Pete says, rolling his eyes. "But you don't love me, do you?"

Patrick chokes. "No, I do, Pete! I really do! I just-"

"Show me, then. Show me that you love me."

Those words.

Those are Gable's words.

Suddenly, memories of bruised cheeks and broken bones come to his mind, and he staggers back. _Gable_ had said that, _Gable_ had demanded they share a bed, because _if Patrick really loved him surely they could have sex._ Gable had begged and pleaded and ordered but Patrick wasn't ready, he still wasn't ready, he'd never _be_ ready. 

For the first time in a long, long time, Patrick is scared of Pete Wentz. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assassination Classroom is the greatest and I love it so much and if Koro Sensei dies I will cry I swear he is the best and I love him. 
> 
> Also I'd like to point out that if you spot any mistakes or typos in this work or any others of mine, don't be afraid to point it out! I proofread my work but sometimes I don't get everything; I've already seen it all and it's a bit boring having to read it again. I am actually quite impatient so I tend to just skim over what I've written rather than actually read it. If you point out a mistake, it should hopefully be fixed shortly after you make your comment; I'm always checking my dashboard for new messages in my inbox. 
> 
> Thanks!


	20. You Don't Know Who I Really Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I just want to know what it's like to be you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm re-watching Sword Art Online and I just... THE FEELS I CAN'T AGGGGHHH.

Patrick, in Pete's opinion, looks good enough to eat; his summer blue eyes glitter in the yellow light, his pale skin is flushed the color of roses across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and his cupid's bow lips are plump and kiss-bitten. He pushes the reason for that to the back of his mind and instead focuses on the pink tongue that flicks out to dampen those lips, making them glisten deliciously.

"You look fucking stunning," he growls, eyes lidded as they trail over Patrick's chest before moving down. He tries to imagine the bulge hidden behind Patrick's fly.  "You have no idea how much I want you."

Patrick's eyes widen and his breath catches. "P-Pete, I'm not... I really don't think I'm ready for that stuff."

"You definitely seemed ready when you were sucking face with Joe."

Patrick goes impossibly red, and Pete can't help but to lunge forward and squeeze him. Being so adorable should be a crime. Patrick would get a life sentence. 

The singer wheezes as his ribs groan from Pete's crushing embrace, and he wiggles as much as he can in the suffocating hold. "P-Pete-"

"I. Want. You."

Before Patrick can respond, Pete slams their lips together.

He kisses the younger man sloppily, their teeth clicking together as he forces his tongue inside Patrick's mouth. Patrick lets out a squeak of surprise, stiffening, and Pete walks him back until he's pressed against the wall. He cages Patrick in his arms, holding him impossibly close, and he sighs into the kiss at the feeling of his hands against Patrick's back. Patrick lets out a tiny moan when he cups his ass tightly, shuddering. Pete smirks and breaks away.

Patrick pants heavily, unsuccessfully trying to shake off Pete' grip. "Pete, stop, please-"

"I don't think so," Pete snaps, eyes hard, and Patrick goes still. "I don't care if Joe's dating you, don't give a flying fuck about Gable. You're mine. All mine."

Patrick gulps. "Pete... you're drunk."

"Yeah? What difference does it make? I'll still be in love with you when I'm sober. You'll still be mine."

He tries to lunge forward and kiss Patrick again, but something snags him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him back. He looks over his shoulder to find Andy glaring at him, tattooed knuckles white as he clutches the black cotton. He glares back and grits his teeth, trying to appear threatening. Andy sighs and shakes his head.

"That's enough. Go to bed and leave Patrick alone."

Pete growls at this, eyes narrowed, and Andy hardly looks fazed at all. He's looking at Pete as thought he's a goddamn _child,_ and Pete's never wanted to punch someone more. Andy tugs again and he reluctantly pulls away, sneaking a quick glance at Patrick before turning to Andy. He tries to tell himself that it's not his fault Patrick's cheeks are damp, however irrational his excuse may be. 

He pushes is to the back of his mind and puts his serious face back on. "'N what happens if I don't, huh? You gonna hit me?"

"If I have to," Andy says, as sincere and terrifying as ever, and Pete decides it's best to back down. He's seen Andy in a fistfight before; someone had ended up in the hospital and the other had looked like a panda, with the matching bruises on each eye.

"Fine," he spits out, giving the drummer his most heated glare.

He forces himself to forget about Patrick as he stomps past the threshold of the bunks, ignoring Joe's demanding of questions, and enters the backroom. He slams the door and flicks the little switch to make it lock. He can hear voices calling through the door, and he can't bring himself to care as he flops onto the bed and tries to bury his mortification in the sheets.

///

When Pete wakes, his ears are ringing and there are tiny people pounding into his skull with pickaxes. He groans, pulling the pillow over his head and squeezing it, trying to silence the noise. He presses it tighter until he can feel his hands through the fabric, and he throws his face onto the mattress in frustration. He lets out an annoyed noise, somewhere between a groan and a grunt, and decides that he might as well take care of the dryness in his mouth.

He removes the pillow and flips around, sliding off of the bed and standing on shaky legs. He brings a hand to his head as the world tilts around him, stumbling and nearly landing on his ass. When he manages to remain steady, he walks around the bed and to the door. He tries to slide it open, but it doesn't budge, and he remembers locking it last night. He flicks the switch again and steps into the aisle. 

The first thing that strikes him is the silence. Normally, there'll be at least one person buzzing about, fiddling with their phone or reading a book they picked up at the last gas station. There won't be an amazingly energetic atmosphere in the morning, though; some people, like Patrick, don't function until ten or later. Still, there should at least be _some_ noise.

The thought of Patrick sends anxiety shooting through his chest, and the blurry fragments of last night's sins click together in Pete's mind like puzzle pieces. He can just make out what the picture is, and a weight begins to press on his shoulders as he drags his feet along the dingy carpet, looking up cautiously in the hopes that he might find Patrick and apologize before the singer finds him. He deserves any blasphemies and derisions Patrick might say, because even though the redhead's the most forgiving person Pete knows, when someone steps over a line, they get their shit rocked. Pete's pretty sure he's stepped over at least five lines, maybe more. 

He's reached the forth bunk when rustling comes from the curtain beside him, followed by a sleepy, "H'llo?" 

"H-hey," he croaks, throat dry. 

The curtain is ripped open so quickly he would have missed it if he'd blinked. Joe's mass of curls pops out and cold eyes meet his own. "Pete. You're awake."

"Yeah..?"

"Are you proud of yourself?"

The question catches Pete completely off guard. His breath catches and he stiffens, eyes widening. "What do you mean?"

Joe narrows his eyes. "Last night. You remember, don't you?"

"...Yes." He really wishes he didn't, although he supposes it's better than being told. Hearing the story come from someone else, hearing them confess all the horrible things he'd done... he can't handle that. That makes all of this real, that would convince him that this isn't some bullshit dream his asshole of a subconscious came up with. 

"Well, are you proud of yourself?"

"No!" he shouts, waving his hands. "Fuck, God no, I'm so fucking stupid, I-"

"No shit, Sherlock."

He knows that Joe has every right to be rude right now, but it still hurts. "I'm so sorry, I just-"

"Am I really the one you should be apologizing to?"

Pete stops, his mind going blank.

He hadn't kissed _Joe._ He hadn't forced _Joe._ He hadn't been a fucking _jackass_ to _Joe._

Patrick.

He needs to apologize to _Patrick._

"Where is he?" he demands, stepping forward. 

Joe rolls his eyes and then his body. He slides out of the bunk and jumps down, landing on his feet. One of his socks is missing; Pete thinks that's a good thing, considering that the remaining sock is the most hideous shade of green he's ever beheld. Joe gestures over his shoulder with his thumb, pointing at the mattress, and Pete looks up slowly.

His best friend is asleep on the bed, delicate eyelashes fluttering against porcelain cheeks. His arms are in front of him, his fingers curling, and he draws his knees up to his chest. His mouth is open and a trickle of drool runs down his chin and onto the pillow. His nose twitches and Pete instantly links Patrick to a cat. They're both adorable, soft, and so unbelievably loveable. 

He's snapped from his admiration when he realizes where Patrick is.

He'd been sleeping with Joe.

That's Joe's bed.

His shoulders gain an extra pound. 

_They're dating, idiot._

Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean Joe has to rub it in his face.

_After what you pulled last night he has every right to rub it in your face, dickbag._

"You're really, sort of, absolutely an asshole. You know that, right?"

Pete sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm thoroughly aware. Thanks, Joe."

Joe chooses to ignore his sarcasm and elaborate on his previous comment. "Seriously, dude. You freaked him the fuck out."

Now _that_ catches his attention. "I-I did?"

"Yes, _asshole,_ you did," Joe hisses, rolling his eyes. "He nearly had a panic attack 'cause of you."

His shoulders weigh a ton. 

He's an idiot.

He's a complete and utter _idiot._

 _Gable's_ supposed to be the one who scares Patrick. _Gable's_ supposed to be the one to make him panic. _Gable's_ supposed to be the villain here, not Pete. 

He's been trying to help. He's been supportive. He's been a good friend.

~~A crutch, maybe, but a not a friend. Not a good one.~~

"You know what you said last night? About him having to show you he loves you?"

 _Stupid, so stupid._ He couldn't have just accepted that? He had to be an asshole and go on about proving himself like some douchey wizard? He can barely bring himself to nod, too caught up in his guilt to speak. 

"Gable. You quoted Gable."

And it all makes sense.

The wide eyes, the panicked breath, the tears. 

Pete's reminded Patrick of the green-eyed beast he's been trying to forget. 

Just when Patrick had found happiness. 

It turns out that maybe, Gable isn't the only one who's green. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update! I know I left you guys on a cliffhanger last time so I tried to get this chapter out as soon as possible, but I've been really tired lately. My sleep schedule is completely derailed; I stay up late, usually until 11, and then I have to get up by at least 7:45 for school. Not the smartest move, I know. I'll try to fix it up so I can start the next chapter as soon as possible. Sorry for any inconvenience!
> 
> (Also thank you so much for the comments, kudos and bookmarks they make my day and when I finally go to sleep I think back to what you guys have to say and I grin like an idiot.)


	21. I Will Never End Up Like Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behind my back I already am.

Patrick's awake, but at the same time, he isn't.

He's awake because, well. He can hear and feel and think clearly, and the first thing he thinks is _'what the fuck happened to my arm.'_

He's not awake because he's still sluggish, the last thing he wants to do right now is open his eyes, and he's pretty sure his right arm has been severed from his body.

He's really not as concerned as he should be.

Something nudges his shoulder and he frowns, grumbling incoherently as he shifts away from it. It returns, with more force this time, and he bats at weakly. It continues shoving him persistently and he eventually gives in, blinking away the sand in his eyes as he opens them. He sees a blurry face next to his, and he grunts out a croaky, "What." 

The owner of the face laughs. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty."

"Mmm," he groans. "Leave me alone."

"Come on, dude, wake up."

"No."

"Please?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Babe, please?" 

He's wide awake when the pet-name registers. His eyes fly open and he blinks, taking in the mess of curls beside his bed. He looks at his arm and finds that it is, in fact, still attached to his body, but he can't feel it. 

"My arm's dead."

The person next to him chuckles. "I think I was laying on it earlier. Sorry."

And he remembers.

Joe's confession. 

Joe's comfort.

Joe's kiss.

It's a blur, after that. He can recall more kisses and cuddling, and that must be when he fell asleep.

Oh.

Right.

This isn't his bed.

It's Joe's. 

His cheeks heat up and he shimmies further beneath the blanket, using the one arm he can feel to pull up the blanket and cover his face. Joe chuckles, eyes twinkling, and Patrick pulls it all the way over his head, delighting in the laugh he earns. He grins secretly.

"As cute as you are-" Joe tugs down the blanket. "-you should get up."

Patrick grimaces. "Why?"

"So I can kiss you."

Any and all of his exhaustion is swept away immediately. He pulls the blanket down all the way as he begins to regain feeling in his arm, sitting up and making sure not to hit his head. He turns to face Joe, swinging his feet over the edge and making eye contact. Joe raises a brow, as if asking for consent, and Patrick nods with a smile. Joe returns it and leans in, locking their lips together. Their kiss is sweet and innocent, no tongue and no teeth, and Joe pulls away far too soon. 

"We should have breakfast," Joe says. "You've gotta talk to Pete later."

Ok, so, he may have forgotten about that.

If he's being honest, he wishes he hadn't remembered.

Patrick's loved Pete. Since they met, he's fantasized about smooth lips and murky eyes. Every time Pete changes his appearance, Patrick falls in love all over again. He'd been head over heels when the bassist had sported a bright red fringe, and he'd barely managed to hold himself back when he'd shown off a straightened mess of black. He's still embarrassed by the way he'd practically drooled when they met up again; being able to see more of Pete's face without his hair in the way was both a blessing and a curse. He looks so much more mature, like the grown-up he physically is.

But last night wasn't what he had in mind.

He'd pictured, over and over again, one of them confessing and the other reciprocating, maybe a date, and to top it all off, a quick peck on the lips or the cheek.

Not being faced with a man drunk off his ass, forcing their mouths together and holding him against a wall. He hasn't been that scared since the tour started, considering he was away from Gable, but it seemed, maybe, that there was a whole new villain at play.

It hurt, thinking of Pete as a villain, but what he'd done, what he'd said...

It was basically like having another Gable around.  

"Yeah," he muttered, mood dampened. "Let's go."

///

To tell the truth, Patrick's dreading this conversation.

Breakfast is so silent Patrick wonders if, perhaps, everyone's fallen asleep with their eyes open. He's eating his cereal in silence, trying not to glance nervously in Pete's direction. He can feel brown eyes burning holes in his back, and he shifts uncomfortably beneath the gaze, eating as quickly as he can so he can get this over and done with.

Fuck, what was he going to say? _Hey, you freaked me the fuck out last night and I love you but please don't do that._ Yeah, no.

What if Pete didn't even remember? What if he had to explain? 

This is so awfully similar to that night where everything had gone to hell, but this time, the roles have been reversed. 

When he finishes his cereal, he puts the bowl in the sink and rinses it out. He leaves it laying there for someone to clean properly.  A cold gust of air hits him and he shivers, hugging himself. They're in Montana and it's only March, so he shouldn't be _too_ surprised, but still. It's fucking _cold._

A pair of long, lanky arms wrap around him from behind, and his breath catches before he recognizes the mane sweeping the back of his neck. 

"You cold?" Joe asks against Patrick's nape, pressing his lips to his skin briefly.

Patrick shudders, and not just because he's freezing. "Y-yeah, a bit."

"Well, we can't have that."

Patrick turns around in Joe's arms and shifts closer, thinking that Joe means they should give each other warmth, but Joe lowers his arms and shrugs off his jacket. It's fur-lined inside, and he shakes his head at the same time he touches it carefully, and _wow, that is so fucking soft where the hell did Joe get this he **needs** one what the fuck-_

"I-I mean, you don't have to." _What? What the actual fuck are you saying, Stump?_

Joe shrugs. "I'm not too cold, so I don't really need it." He smirks. "Besides, you'd look good in it."

Patrick blushes and Joe hands him the jacket. He slips it on carefully, and it's almost as warm as Joe himself. There's still some leftover body heat from Joe, and as he zips it up he can't help but nuzzle the fur-lined hood. It smells like Joe's cologne; robust and powerful and _there,_ with a silver lining of delicacy and love. He thinks he'll hold on to this for a while. 

A loud clatter startles him, and he turns around to find that Pete's dropped his spoon in his cereal. The bassist's mouth hangs open and he gapes at the two of them before color floods his cheeks. He stands up and marches to the sink, practically throwing the bowl in before making his way to the bunks.

"When you're done," he hisses, glaring over his shoulder, "come meet me in the backroom."

A twang of guilt plagues him, and he gives Joe a quick hug before breaking away and drifts to the door. He can feel the concern radiating off of his lover, and he tries to convince himself that this is nothing more than a trivial exchange of words. It won't be anything like what Joe had said, it won't result in one of them getting wasted, _that_ night won't repeat itself.

He's really starting to hate the backroom.

When Patrick arrives, Pete's sitting on the bed with his arms crossed. There's a black cloud around him, formidable and foreboding, and Patrick hesitates to join him. Pete gives him a look that makes him shuffle over immediately. 

"So, we both know what it is we need to talk about," Patrick states, voice remaining steady despite the invisible claws wrapping around his chest. 

Pete nods, and the anger in that black cloud of his is fading. "Last night."

Patrick's hands are starting to shake. "Why did you do that, Pete?"

"I was drunk," Pete snaps hotly, before he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "No, that's... that's a shitty excuse, sorry. I-I think I was... jealous, maybe? Upset? I don't fucking know."

"You were jealous?" Patrick asks, and he already knows the answer, but he needs to make sure that Pete was telling the truth and that what he said wasn't just something the alcohol whipped up for him. He needs to know for sure. "Of what?"

Pete shrugs and stares down at his lap. "Y-you and Joe, I guess? I mean, you guys looked so happy and, well, that doesn't usually happen for me. You've seen how most of my relationships end up."

The claws around his chest tighten their grip. "Is that it?"

"What more do you want to know?"

"Last night. You remember what you said, don't you?"

Pete's face goes stark. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, and I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't mean to do all that, I-I drank a lot and I was such and asshole and I'm so sorry I just-"

"But did you mean what you said? About... about wanting me?"

That makes Pete's rant come to a screeching halt. He blinks dumbly, casting a nervous glance at Patrick before looking away. His voice is so quiet Patrick struggles to hear it. "Yeah."

Patrick's heart is confused.

On one hand, Pete's just confirmed that he has feelings for Patrick, and that he's wanted him for just as long. He has a chance at this. He has a chance at Pete.

On the other, however, he's pretty sure Pete's confirmed that he wants Patrick to 'show him his love.' And that's what Gable wants, and if he's going to turn out like Gable then Patrick is utterly screwed because they're in a band together, and they've been friends for over a decade, and _fuck,_ he's freaking out, his lungs are collapsing, oh _shit he's panicking-_

"B-but not about the proving and stuff! Joe told me Gable says that shit and it's honestly such a douchey thing to say and I did _not_ mean that, Patrick, not a bit."

Oh thank fuck. 

Once he knows he can breathe again, Patrick forces himself to look Pete in the eye. "So, you're not like Gable? You won't do... all of that?"

"Fuck no!" Pete shouts, waving his hands frantically. "Patrick, I'd never be like him, you know that!"

"Do I?"

The pain on Pete's face is so much worse than abuse. It's worse than steel-capped boots, it's worse than open-palmed strikes, it's worse than drunk kisses and sober threats. The tears in Pete eyes are from a different kind of pain, but they're similar to his own. They're from heartbreak, from abandoned trust and broken promises. They're from fear and confusion and pain all mixed together to create a hideous concoction. They're from nights spent with a single word in a shattered mind.

_Why?_

"Patrick," Pete whispers, and it's like the first note of a tragic song. 

Patrick's throat tightens, and soon enough, his eyes are damp, too. "I'm scared, Pete. Last night... you were him. The minute you kissed me, you weren't Pete anymore. You were him. And I'm scared."

A hiccup comes from Pete's lips. "I'm so sorry-"

"I'm scared you'll... you'll end up like him. That Gable won't be the only one I'll have to hide from."

"I won't, I promise I won't-"

"Are you sure?"

Pete nods frantically, and suddenly his hands are tight on Patrick's shoulders. The crazed look in his eyes fades when he observes Patrick's face. He brushes his knuckles over his cheek delicately and pitches forward, pressing their foreheads together. "I promise."

"What do you promise?" Patrick breathes as liquid warmth slides down his cheeks.

"I promise to protect you. I promise to listen to you. I promise to respect you." Pete leans back on his heels and their eyes meet. "I promise to know my boundaries. I promise to stop when you ask me to."

A sob rips its way out of Patrick's lungs. "Pete..."

"I promise to hold you. I promise to care for you. I promise to always be at your side."

Pete cups Patrick's cheeks, even as tears spills over them. Patrick's shaking violently, and the warmth from Joe's jacket is no longer there to keep him safe. He sobs again, sniffling. "I forgive you," he chokes out, voice thin. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean what I said, I trust you, it's just, I-I-"

Patrick starts to cry, and Pete shushes him, cooing softly. "Don't apologize, Patrick. I should be the one doing that."

Patrick shakes his head and falls forward, burying his face in Pete's chest and pulling him impossibly close. He feels a bit bad, because he's ruined yet another person's shirt, but the guilt of his actions weighs over him like a shadow and he cries harder at the horrible things he'd said. He has every right to be scared, he knows that, but he didn't have to make Pete feel like shit because of him. He's so selfish. 

"I'm so tired, Pete," he whimpers. "I've been hurting so much for so long and I'm just so exhausted, I'm so _tired,_ _it hurts."_

Pete pulls away, carding a hand through Patrick's hair, and Patrick tries to jump forward and hide himself again. Pete holds his shoulders firmly and says, "Look at me."

Patrick hesitates before peering up at his best friend. He's greeted by warm eyes and a tiny smile.

His heart cracks, breaks and mends itself when Pete speaks again.

"I love you."

The grip on his shoulders goes slack and he returns to crushing the life out of Pete, and he glows when Pete wraps his arms around him and pulls his head beneath his chin. There's fingers brushing through his hair and a hand on the small of his back, and it's so unlike the dreaded event of the past twenty-four hours that he almost can't believe it's real. 

"I love you too," he hiccups. _"I love you too."_

He doesn't think he can handle actually dating Pete at the moment. He knows he's in love and he knows he wants to, but he's still weary. It's tough, being scared of his best friend, but he'll do his best to handle it. He only just started things with Joe, and he wants to see how well that fire burns before igniting a new one.

He might not be able to stomach a kiss, but with Pete holding him close and rocking them gently and murmuring in his ear, he knows he'll work up to it.

 _One day,_ he tell himself.

_One day._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so there's a two-week break now and I'll be able to get more sleep so you know what that means; more time and energy to write! Yaay! (I've been super tired and sleep-deprived so that's why this chapter took so long to come out lol.)  
> 


	22. You Need Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is extremely dialogue heavy, just so you know.

Andy can't help the tiny smile on his face as he watches Joe and Patrick hold each other tenderly. They're the gross, in-your-face, makes-you-want-to-throw-up kind of couple, and he has to hold back a coo because goddammit, that's adorable. He's happy for them; they're good for each other. They've been friends for so long, and they get along like a house on fire, and he may or may not be internally chanting _OTP_ at the sight of them. Seriously. They're so fucking cute.

He tries not to glare at Pete as he watches a scowl spread across his face, and it's harder than he'd like it to be. Really, Pete? He's matured now, sure, but he's still childish. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and it looks even uglier on Pete. Green's really not his color. 

A pang of anxiety hits him when Patrick follows Pete through the doorway and into the waiting room at the back of the bus. Last night, he hadn't been prepared for the sight of a drunk bassist molesting their singer without asking. He'd been more than thankful that he'd gotten to them on time. He doesn't _really_ think Pete would do _that,_ but still. Alcohol's can really fuck with people's heads.

"I hope it goes well," he says to Joe when the younger man joins him on the couch. 

"Yeah," Joe breathes. "I want them to make up. Last night was fucked up, but I really don't want the consequences to last forever, you know?"

Andy nods. "I do. Congratulations, by the way."

Joe frowns. "For what?"

"For getting with Patrick. Nice one."

"Really?" Joe asks, brows raised. 

"Yep." He pops the P. "You two are cute together."

"Oh, uh. Thanks." Joe blushes and looks away, but he seems to be struck with an idea and meets Andy's eyes again. "So you're not jealous?"

It's Andy's turn to frown. "No? Why would I be?"

"I-it's just, you want to... be with him too, right?"

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I can't be happy for you, though."

Joe's eyes are wide. "Wow. Um. Okay then. You really don't mind?"

"Not a bit."

Joe nods and they fall silent, and Andy can't help but feel like he's ripped apart the warm atmosphere that had surrounded them only moments before. He knows he'll only continue to destroy it if he continues, but he can't keep the question in any longer. It could easily change everything, and he can't stop the tightening of his chest.

He clears his throat. "So, uh," he starts, voice thin. "I was just curious- and you totally don't have to answer if you don't want to- um, what's your take on polyamory?" 

"Polyamory?" Joe's eyebrows raise. "That's when someone's dating more than one person, right?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Oh. Well, uh," Joe trails off, twiddling his thumbs. "I'm fine with it, if that's what you're wondering. Like, it's not weird or anything."

"Yeah." Andy nods. "That's. That's good to hear."

"Why… why do you ask?"

Andy gulps. "Well, this is just an assumption so don't assume it's one-hundred percent accurate or anything, but I think maybe Patrick likes all of us..? Like that night, when he told us that, maybe he wasn't kidding. Maybe it wasn't just the alcohol talking."

Joe's eyes widen marginally. "And we all like him. So you're saying maybe..?"

"We could all end up together. Yeah." And then he feels like he's offended Joe, and he wonders if anyone else is secretly listening and if he's offended them too, and he knows he has to excuse himself. "O-of course, I'm not really sure if, like, Pete likes me, or if you like Pete, or anything like that, and obviously in order to have healthy polyamorous relationship we all need to date, right? No, that's not right, we can just be friends, you don't have to date anyone you don't want to. Sorry this is just really confusing and I'm not really sure what to think-"

"Andy, dude! Slow down!" Joe yells, waving his hands in front of Andy's face. "Look, I know you're confused and stressed and all that, and to be honest, I am too, okay? You aren't alone in this. And I mean, I don't really think we all have to date for a good relationship, right? Like, Patrick and I could be dating, and Pete could be dating Patrick, but Pete and I are just friends."

Andy heaves out a large sigh. "That's true. Where'd you learn that?"

"Tumblr reposts," Joe says, quirking a smile. 

Andy reflects the smile with a small laugh, shoulders shaking. "So you wouldn't mind it then. If you were in a polyamorous relationship."

"Nope. As long as my partners are happy, and no one gets hurt, it's all good." 

Andy nods, and the silence sweeps over them again. It's still awkward, and Andy shifts in his seat, but it's less tense than before. Something settles in his chest. It's not heavy or light, not warm or cold. It's just there. It just exists.

Their silence is disrupted by the sound of the sliding door scraping against the ground. Both of their heads shoot up and they scan the faces of the room's newest occupants.

Pete's... well, he's Pete. Mussed up hair that somehow still looks organized, golden skin that matches the endless plains of Death Valley, thoughtful pools as inviting as the chocolate that shares their color. His eyes are glossy and there's a ghostly shine there, which is new, but Joe's eyes are on Patrick.

His best friend's lover has red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy mess of a face. His arms are wrapped around himself and his thumbs are jammed into his armpits, but Joe can still see the way they're shaking. Patrick musters a wavering smile, lips trembling, and Joe's up in an instant. 

He practically jumps on Patrick, holding him tight and resting his chin on his rustic hair. "What happened, Patrick?" he dares to ask, swaying them back and forth when he hears Patrick sniffle. "Why are you crying?"

Andy feels like he should turn away, like this is a private moment and he shouldn't be watching, but at the same time he thinks that averting his eyes could be seen as disrespectful so he just stares at Pete. They look at each other awkwardly, similar emotions swirling in their minds. 

"'M-m not crying," Patrick murmurs.

Joe frowns. "You were."

"It's not anything bad, okay? P-Pete and I talked, and I got all emotional, and... yeah. I don't know why you're surprised."

"Why do you say that?" Joe says, pushing on Patrick's shoulders so he can look him in the eyes.

Patrick shrugs. "I dunno. I mean, I've just been crying a lot, lately? And ruining people's shirts. That too."

Joe gives a small smile. "So these aren't bad tears, then?"

"Nope."

"I apologized," Pete says. "In case you were wondering."

"Good. That's good." Joe nods at him, and Pete nods back.

"So last night won't repeat itself?" 

Andy feels a bit rude asking, but it has to be said. He has to know. Pete's eyes are wide as he answers. "No. Fucking God, no way. Never again."

"Promise."

"Yeah. I promise."

Patrick smiles at the bassist, rubbing the heel of his palm beneath his eye. "U-um, there's actually something else I wanted to say. If that's alright."

Everyone inclines their heads, and the smile slips off his face. He breaths out a shaky exhale and rubs his palms against the front of his jeans. 

"So, uh, basically, what I wanted to say was, um. We all know Gable, and we know I'm eventually going to, to break up with him. But, I don't think we ever decided when?"

Andy nods at him. "Yeah. We didn't have a date set. I think we all just wanted you to be ready, and we didn't want to force you."

"You _need_ to be ready," Pete says, fire flickering in his chocolate eyes. 

Patrick gulps. "I-I suppose you're right, a-and thanks, but. Um. I was thinking I'd do it soon. Like, in a few days. I'd just thought I'd tell you in case... I don't know."

"We'll be there with you, if that's what you want," Joe suggests, reaching out a hand and lacing their fingers together. Andy smiles at the display. "And if he says anything, if he threatens to do anything, we'll protect you."

Patrick's mouth tugs up at the corners. "I know. And, that'd be great. You are seriously the best."

Everyone chuckles, and the warm atmosphere sinks back in. Pete begins to tell one of the wild stories he's found on Twitter, Joe and Patrick lean against each other on the couch, and Andy watches them all through his glasses.

Even if he's not the oldest, it's times like these when he feels like a father to the rest of his band.

He knows that if he was, he'd be so proud of them all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems that two-week breaks are accompanied by activities at the community center, playing far too much of the Sims 4 and bowling on Friday the 13th, and consequently I haven't had much time to update. I know I said I would and I am so sorry I haven't so I'm really gonna try to pull myself together and put out a few chapters on this work and my others. I might also write a few one-shots if anyone is interested ;) I'm always open for suggestions so if you have any ideas please let me know!


	23. Rejoice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can exhale now.

They've had three easy days to prepare.

There's no stiffness in their joints when they perform, no sweaty palms during the two interviews they take part in, no tension on the tour bus. They're all smiling and laughing with each other, and the smiles are genuine and the laughs are bright and it's just so _perfect_ that they can't help but salvage it. 

And then, when they finish their show, Patrick's hit with a burst of inspiration. 

Today is the day. 

Joe greets him when he exits his dressing room, and a tentative smile tickles his lips. "Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna call him today."

Joe's eyebrows raise, ready to meet his hairline, and a surprised grin spreads across his face. "Really? Today?"

"Yep," Patrick giggles, popping the P.

"Dude, epic!" Joe leans down and hugs him, squeezing warmly, and sways them lightly. "I'm proud of you, Patrick. Good job."

"I haven't even done it yet, Joe."

"Well, still."

They share a laugh, lock their fingers together and start down the hall. 

They find Andy and Pete bantering outside, chatting easily, and Joe waves them down. "Guys, have we got news for you!"

"What?" They say simultaneously, and snicker at it briefly.

Patrick beams at them. "Guess who I'm calling today."

Pete's eyes glaze over as he ponders it, but Andy speaks up immediately. "Gable?"

"How right you are."

Pete lets out an excited squeal and lunges forward, embracing Patrick roughly. Andy chuckles and pats Patrick on the back, radiating happiness. A warm feeling settles in Patrick's chest, and the muscles in his cheeks twitch from smiling so hard. 

Everyone's at the bus in record time, and when Pete points out how surprised Marcus looks Patrick laughs so hard he nearly falls over. Joe thinks that they should gather in the backroom, so that they'll be at least one happy memory in there. Pete thinks it sounds like they're summoning a demon. He's not far off.

Patrick sits down on the bed first, and Joe slides up next to him, placing a hand on his thigh. Patrick fans out his fingers over it and squeezes lightly. Andy sits on his other side and Pete plops down on the floor, leaning back against the bed and grinning giddily. 

"Our materials for this ritual are..?" He jokes, trailing off and waiting for someone to finish.

Patrick reaches into his pocket. "One phone."

"Three friends," Andy continues.

Joe's eyes twinkle as he finishes. "And a fuck-ton of courage."

Patrick bats at his arm playfully before unlocking his phone, searching for Gable in his contacts. He taps on it when he does, and the golden feeling in his chest slowly starts to fade when he types out a message. His hands are shaking when he presses send.

_What are you up to rn?_

"I thought you were calling him?" Pete intones.

Patrick sighs softly. "I need to text him before I do. So that I know he isn't busy."

"I hate to point fingers," Andy says, voice monotone. "But I don't feel like you made up that rule yourself."

"I didn't."

Silence falls over them like a blanket, soon disrupted by the chiming of Patrick's phone.

**I told you that you sound like a child when you talk like that.**

**And I'm not busy currently, so you have permission to call me.**

_Sorry._

_And thank you. I'll call you now._

"He treats you like a..." Pete trails off, unsure of what word to use. "Like a... dog. Like something that's not human."

"I'm used to it," Patrick says, shrugging. 

He finds the call button, and his thumb hovers over it, inches away from the screen.

Joe's brow furrows. "What's wrong?"

Patrick lets out a shaky sigh. "I-it's nothing, just... I'm nervous."

"We're here for you," Andy says. "Remember, it's just a call. He can't hurt you."

"I know, I know. It's just nerves, I think. I don't know."

Andy reaches across and, to Patrick's surprise, places a large hand on Patrick's shoulder. When Patrick looks at him curiously, he just smiles. Pete notices, and he decides to jump on the bandwagon, too. He raises one arm above his head and lays it on Patrick's thigh. Joe swirls his thumb in circles on his other thigh. 

He feels light again.

He presses call and brings the phone to his ear.

"Put it on speaker," Pete mutters, fire burning in his eyes. 

He does so just as Gable's rumbling voice floods into the room. 

"Hello, Patrick."

"Hello, Gable."

"Where are you right now?" There's aggression lying, buried, beneath his honeyed voice. "Are you alone?"

Patrick swallows. "Yes. I'm alone in the backroom, on the tour bus."

"Good. Now, what do you have to say that is so important to call me over?"

"I wanted to talk to you." He glances up at the other men in the room nervously. Compassion, hope and encouragement shine in their eyes. "It's important."

"Make it quick, then," Gable hisses. 

Patrick takes a deep breath. "How long have we been together?"

Gable groans irritably. "Our second anniversary is in two days."

"Oh," he murmurs, and there's an odd pang in his chest that he can't explain. 

"Is this really what you wanted to call me over? Asking about us? That's just sad."

"No, there's more to it."

Joe leans over, his lips hovering over Patrick's ear. "Do it," he whispers, hot breath warming his neck. 

"We won't be celebrating our anniversary in two days."

He can almost see the way Gable's face goes red, the way his eyes bulge along with the vein in his neck. "What?! What are you on about? Did you hit your head? Are you drunk?"

"I'm leaving you," Patrick states, and his voice wavers and threatens to break, and his eyes are watering, but he's done it. He's choked the words out. "I'm breaking up with you."

"No you're not!" Gable shouts. A loud bang comes from the speakers, and Patrick knows he's throwing things, like he always does when something pisses him off. "You can't leave! You aren't allowed to! How dare you!"

Patrick squeezes Joe's hand and takes a deep breath. "Yes I am. You can't control me."

"I can do what I damn well please. You are below me. You are _mine."_

"I am my own person, Gable!" There's a flare in his heart, like fire burning and crackling. Suddenly, there's a tornado swirling through him, threatening to rip apart anything in its path, and his tears are gone and the fear's faded away and all he can feel is _rage._ "You always control me! You treat me like a child! You don't treat me like a god damn human being! I'm done, okay? I'm done being treated like garbage."

"I've treated you wonderfully! I'm the best you're ever going to find!"

"The best? Hardly. I have the best and it's definitely not you, you fucking piece of shit." 

Gable growls into the speaker. "First of all, you do _not_ talk to me like that. Second of all, _who are you seeing?_ Who are you sleeping with, huh? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, whore that you are, but I won't allow it."

"First of all," Patrick starts in a mocking imitation of Gable's voice. "I'm twenty-six, not twelve. Who said you were my mom?" Gable inhales sharply, but Patrick cuts him off before he can speak. "Second of all, who I sleep with is none of your business. I know you fuck people behind my back, so I think I've earned this."

"How dare you- "

"Bye, hon." His voice is cold, devoid of emotion. "Go find yourself another whore. This one's already taken."

"Listen here, you fucking faggot, I- "

Patrick hangs up before he can say anything else. 

A tense silence falls over them. The only sounds are Patrick's harsh breathing and the rumbling of the bus. His hands tremble and he lets his phone fall, staring blankly at it when he hears a crack. Good. The phone was a gift from Gable. Breaking it doesn't feel like enough; he wants to burn it, wants to smash it, wants to grind the shards into fine dust. He watches it slide across the floor when the bus takes a long turn and doesn't do anything when it hits the wall.

He doesn't remember Joe's hand on his knee until he looks down and realizes it's gone. He finds his boyfriend's got it balled into a fist and, when he looks at his face, his crystallin eyes are damp. He's about to ask why he's crying when Joe speaks. It's quiet and slurred, hard to decipher, but he picks it up easily.

"I want to kill him."

Patrick's taken aback. "Huh?"

"I want to kill him," Joe repeats sharply, murder dripping from his tongue. "I want Gable to suffer like you did."

"Joe, I-I don't-"

"He's evil, Patrick!" Suddenly, he's shouting, and his eyes are wide and his teeth are clenched and god, he's animosity incarnate. "He hurt you, he lied to you, he called you a whore and a faggot and he said you were _his,_ like you were a piece of property! He tried to break you, Patrick! You could've died!"  

And, well, he's not wrong. He's fully aware that Gable's been stalking the band, and he knows it'd be easy for him to sneak backstage, find Patrick when the others aren't around, take him away, put those guns in his basement to good use.

Patrick shudders. 

"I-I know," he says quietly, placing his hand over Joe's fist. "I know what he could've done, and I know what he's already done. But look at what I just did, Joe. I left him. We don't have to think about him anymore, okay? He's gone, you can get him out of your head."

Joe huffs but nods. "I'll try."

Pete smiles up at them with twinkling eyes, grin stretched across his face. "I, for one, am a proud father. Good job, son."

"Pete, that's so weird," Andy intones.

"Whatever." The playfulness seems to wash out of Pete and his face hardens. Slowly, he reaches up and strokes Patrick's cheek with his hand, fingers dancing across his cheekbones carefully. He brings up his other arm and then he's cupping Patrick's face, beaming at him, and, well, he really does look like a proud parent. "I'm serious, though. I'm so proud of you, Golden Boy. Our Golden Boy."

Heat rises to Patrick's cheeks and spreads through his body. He feels safe and strong and loved, and he realizes how touch-starved he's been since he got with Gable. He hasn't been shown this much affection in so long. It feels right. It feels perfect. It feels like home.

He truly feels golden. 

A strong pair of arms wraps around him from behind, and there's a face pressed against his neck, and Andy mumbles a small "Proud of you." Joe leans over and plants a kiss on his forehead. Pete rubs his thumbs against his cheeks. Between all the love, he's overwhelmed, and then there's warm tears welling in his eyes and his lips are trembling but he's smiling so hard his face hurts. He's a little mad at himself for crying, because he's been doing it so much lately, but his anger is drowned out by joy. 

"You're free now, Trick," Andy whispers, breath hot against Patrick's skin. "Your chains are gone. You can stop holding your breath."

He hiccups.

Andy burrows further into him.

"You can exhale now, Patrick."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love, Simon reference at the end there ayyyyyyy.
> 
> You have no idea how many times i wrote 'Gale' instead of 'Gable' when writing this chapter honestly this is what The Hunger Games has done to me. 
> 
> But let's not ignore the giant elephant in the room;
> 
> I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THE UNEXPECTED HIATUS. I WAS HIT WITH A SUDDEN BOUT OF DEPRESSION AND I WASN'T FEELING MOTIVATED OR ANYTHING AND THEN I HAD ANOTHER GENDER CRISIS AND REALIZED I'M ACTUALLY NON-BINARY (which is a whole other can of worms) AND TO MAKE MATTERS WORSE I'M QUESTIONING MY SEXUALITY NOW TOO I THINK I MAY BE AROMANTIC OR DEMIROMANTIC OR SMTHNG HNNNNGGG I DON'T KNOW.
> 
> Also I went to a pride parade and there was a pug afterward (we have a sort of market thing after the march) and her name was Dutchess and she was so small like chihuaha sized and she was wearing a unicorn costume and I got to hold her and she gave me kisses and god I love pugs. And kudos to the drag queens at pride, who walked 1.7 kilometres in 7 INCH HEELS. You guys give good hugs and it's both intimidating and awesome to be towered over by someone fabulous. Miss Betty Botox and JoJo Zaho, I love you.


End file.
